


Hearts Wrapped in Clover

by BabylonsFall, benjaminrussell



Series: You Could Hide Beside Me [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjaminrussell/pseuds/benjaminrussell
Summary: Hardison, Parker, Nate, and Sophie have managed to successfully run Leverage, Inc. on their own, for three years running now. But when the bullet meant for a mark strikes a little too close to home, and outside pressures start threatening the team, they decide to split up, to lay low, running from both the Italian’s threats and Moreau’s attention. Nate and Sophie head out to provide a moving target, Hardison and Parker disappear into the countryside to the very last place anyone would think to look for them. And, just their luck, the neighbor’s even weirder than they are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2017 Leverage Big Bang!
> 
> This straight up would not have been completed without my wonderful beta [Desiderii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiderii); and [Reallife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife) and [Freckledheart](http://freckled-heart.tumblr.com) listening to me whining and yelling. Thank you all so much! And thank you so much to the mods for setting this event up!
> 
> The absolutely beautiful cover (below) and [trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BckQidxmCg&feature=youtu.be) was done by the amazing [Benjaminrussell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjaminrussell)
> 
> Title is taken from At Last by Etta James
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

_ Eliot _

 

Eliot was struck, sometimes, by how much had changed in the last three years. (And how much hadn’t.)

Sure, he still woke up some days and had remind himself that he was _trying_ and that that was the important part. He still sometimes took a look at the warzone that was his house ( _his house_ , and wasn’t that a trip in and of itself) and had to remind himself that one day soon it’d be done, he just had to try a little harder (even if the idea of actually finishing everything sometimes sat like a stone in his stomach).

If he was being honest, he was really only struck with either idea on mornings like this. Sitting on his porch, watching the occasional pair of headlights trace slowly down the curving road as a car rolled by the otherwise deserted street—pale grey morning light was only just starting to peek over the hills to the east. Breathing around the weight in his chest that had kept sleep at bay. It wasn’t as heavy as it’d once been, didn’t shoot ice through his veins as it kept his feet on the ground; it was grounding now, rather than suffocating, but still unequivocally _there_.

He had someplace he considered home now—with all the incumbent baggage that came with it, sure, but it was still _home_. He did favors, not jobs—picked where to give his skills and when to keep to himself—and had yet to regret a single one. They didn’t add to his sleepless nights.

He could do absolutely nothing all day, if he wanted to. Or he could work on the house. Or just… disappear for a little while. No one was waiting on him, watching for him, hunting him.

(That weight in his chest was the only thing keeping him on his feet, mornings like this, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that, while it seared his lungs, he needed it to breathe, to stay in one piece.)

Then, almost without fail, Megs would come ambling out of the house and attempt to hop up onto his lap, coffee mug or general complications of dogs that size be damned. Collies were not meant to be lap dogs. Megs never seemed to get that memo, and Eliot didn’t really have it in him to try to teach the fluffy mutt otherwise. And, so, also without fail, he’d slide to the ground and let Megs sprawl over his lap.

And when the melancholy of the morning decided to take a hike, as it inevitably would, no matter how bad the night before had been, he’d get up, feed the dog, and start the day.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was getting there. And running through the list of things that had changed ( _for the better, all of this was for the better_ ) could keep him going until then.

This morning followed that basic layout—up to, and including, Megs nearly knocking over his coffee—but with the addition of a black van pulling up to the house next door. There was enough land between the two of them that he could get a look at the young couple that stepped out of it, but not their expressions.

It was weird, sure—there hadn’t been anyone in that house since he’d moved in three years ago, and, if the older folk of the neighborhood were to be believed, far longer than that—but neither of them moved with any kind of purpose to set off any alarm bells. So, rather than dwell on it—they’d either stick around and he’d end up meeting them, or they wouldn’t and it wouldn’t matter—he shoved the 50lb mutt off his lap and headed inside. He needed to redo the drywall in the living room today, and the sooner he got started, the sooner he could move on.

* * *

 

_Hardison_

 

Theoretically, Hardison could appreciate where Nate was coming from. He could understand, on some level, that this was actually a good idea. Him and Parker could disappear sure, but they had no idea how far down they were burned. So, until they figured _that_ out, using a bolthole unaffiliated with any of Hardison’s creations or Parker’s warehouses was probably the best idea.

Theoretically, Hardison was also cool with the idea of surviving strictly off orange soda, hot pockets and gummy frogs.

Realistically, he knew that was a horrible idea and he still had horrible memories of how his stomach disagreed with that.

And so, realistically, he knew this too, was a horrible idea and was going to blow up in all their faces.

“Nate. This is _not_ funny Nate.” He could practically _hear_ the eye roll over the phone, even before the muffled mumble of what was possibly a ‘what?’ from the other end of the phone. “Why do you even own this?” And why had he not known about it? He’d been pretty sure he’d tracked down most of the team’s holdings.

...with absolutely no ulterior motive. At all.

It took a couple moments (a couple muffled grunts and grumbles and what Hardison was pretty sure was impressively colorful cursing for a guy that had just woken up) but eventually he heard Nate actually getting out of bed (or off the couch, whatever). “It’s one of Sophie’s.” And that made more sense at least. Somewhat. “And we agreed we’d split for a couple of months. We’ve been over this Hardison.”

“Right, but you two get to galavant across Europe while we’re stuck… here.”

“You know, ‘here’ is a pretty nice place, from how she described it.”

‘Here’ was, actually, much to Hardison’s annoyance, a very nice place. Large ranch-style house (though he was pretty sure those were normally single storey. With the exposed ceiling, the height was closer to two, which Parker was already all over), looked practically brand new, updated interior, already furnished. Hell, he’d set up worse bases for their cons that he’d considered pretty decent. It wasn’t so much the _house_ that he had a problem with. It was _where_ the house was.

Specifically. The middle of Nowhere, Colorado. The house was dropped into what could, maybe, loosely be termed a neighborhood in the foothills of the Rockies. They could see their neighbor’s house to the south but not to the north (if there even was someone there, and not just an empty house. The quick look he’d taken as they drove past had been unclear on that).

“Not the point Nate. I have boltholes everywhere, we could’ve gone there—kept working and everything.”

“We don’t know how much they’ve managed to dig up on all of us yet—”

“What about the connection to Sophie then? And I can hack the FBI, Nate. Pretty sure I can make us disappear.”

“It’s just for a couple months Hardison, while we figure out exactly where we stand. It’ll be fine. Enjoy the fresh air or something.”

“You can’t just avoid the question Nate—Nate? Really?” Yep, he’d hung up. Great.

And, honestly, Hardison wasn’t _completely_ upset about the change in scenery from Boston but… when Nate had said they’d had a bolthole him and Parker could use while the two of them vanished into parts unknown, completely unaffiliated with any of them (and he’d have to look into how this traced back to Sophie, honestly, if Nate was confident about _that_ , but not _his_ abilities at disappearing. Only mildly insulting, that), _this_ was not what he’d pictured.

Then again, this whole scenario was so far outside what he’d pictured happening in the last couple of months, that, honestly, he shouldn’t be too surprised at this point.

One bullet getting a little too close to home, and all their plans had gone out the window. Sure, they’d successfully trussed up their mark—served him up on a metaphorical silver platter and gotten the hell out of dodge, like normal. They’d even figured out why he was so important in the first place. But the bullet that had gone through the apartment window to lodge into Nate’s wall… none of them had really been expecting it.

They should’ve of course. You couldn’t go after one of the heaviest hitters in the global black market and not expect things to slide sideways, honestly.

But walking into the apartment, to see Nate just eyeing the hole in the wall, jaw set in that stupid stubborn scowl of his that meant he’d made up his mind, fallout be damned… Hardison had felt his stomach drop to his feet in that moment. And since then, he’d been tossed from one surprise to another, as Nate announced that they were blown, that they needed to scatter for a little while, figure out how to get out of this mess in a way that wouldn’t put all of them in danger—and none of them were fooled by that, that Nate wouldn’t readily throw himself into the fire if he thought it would help (not that it ever did. Ever. They were all kind of sick of it) but they had the good grace not to point it out.

Hardison would like it to be known that that had been a heroic effort on his part, and that he officially held _told you so_ rights since he called just how bad an idea this was since things started falling neatly into place after they busted Nate out of jail.

(But, since he was also self-aware enough to realize he was being petty because it was better than being scared, he kept his mouth shut.)

“So, one neighbor with a dog. Other house is empty.” He didn’t jump. He _didn’t_ , okay? He was used to Parker popping up out of nowhere with no conceivable cover for her to have used.

(Maybe he jumped a little. Maybe. He took it as a positive sign concerning his survival instincts.)

“When’d you go over there?” She gave him an odd look, raising an eyebrow.

“While you were arguing with Nate.” She shrugged. Which. Fair enough.

And, not like he could really fault her for going to check them out—he’d be doing the exact same thing, just with the computer instead of, you know, actually going outside to look, the moment he got the chance to. Sure, he trusted Nate and Sophie not to send them to live next to anyone comically and obviously dangerous, but, for all their intelligence and scary know-it-all abilities, they couldn’t find what he could. That was just fact.

But, if all Parker was commenting on was the dog? Good first sign that their neighbor was probably your average neighbor out here, and not, you know Michael Myers.

She wandered off to do who knows what—he saw ropes and a couple backpacks already tucked into the exposed beams, so maybe fine tuning that mess—while he decided to cut his losses with Nate for now and unpack what he could out of Lucille. He was already compiling a list of things he’d need to order to make the house liveable, and the sooner he got those orders in, the sooner this place could be at least somewhat comfortable.

Hearing absolutely nothing but the wind through the still open door settled the first thing on the list though. Music. And lots of it.

* * *

It wasn’t until later that first night, when he’d finished setting up what electronics he’d brought with him and made room for those that would be delivered later that week (just because they had to lay low did _not_ mean they were going to sit still and do nothing) that Hardison could, grudgingly, admit that Nate was probably (definitely) right sending them out here.

Splitting up was, of course, the logical first step. So, Nate and Sophie off to the far reaches to track down what they could, while also providing a moving target for whoever was looking for them. They could do subtle with the best of them, but, as Hardison had quickly learned, they worked much better as peacocks. Hardison and Parker, then, could remain stateside, in the absolute last place anyone would look for them, searching for what information _they_ could.

Which. _That_ part was actually tripping Hardison up still. Why was Parker with him?

Not that he was complaining mind you. At all. He wasn’t too ahead of himself that he couldn’t admit that when Nate had suggested (ordered) splitting up again, he’d gotten a flashback to the first time they’d tried that and an unpleasant accompanying drop in his stomach at the idea of Parker being in the wind again.

He could erase their steps, their very history, carve new futures out of code and paper. But he was still working with anchors, tangible points of data (at least, tangible to him). _She_ could vanish into thin air, with nothing tethering her to the past, present, or future, when she wanted to. He was very familiar with how fast she could do it too, and despite the last couple of months, he hadn’t been sure she’d stick around (not that that fear was founded, at all. She’d been right there with him, every single time he had insisted they all stick together. But, still, it was a fear. No one said those had to be rational).

And yet, when Nate had suggested they go together, she hadn’t hesitated to agree. And she hadn’t balked when, the closer they got to the address Nate had given them (with no explanation mind you, which Hardison realized was a very careful choice only once it was too late to turn around), the more obviously they were heading into the middle of nowhere. (Which was more than could be said for his own reaction.)

He was curious about it, sure. Hopeful, maybe. (Definitely). But he certainly wasn’t going to question it. If it ended up bothering her, she’d tell him, and if not, he’d take the time they’d been given and just… be happy about it, honestly.

And you know what? Suddenly, being out in the middle of nowhere didn’t seem so bad.

* * *

“So, who are we here?” He blinked, glancing up. He was currently surrounded by wires and ties, trying to put together the last of his set up that had arrived that morning, while  sitting in the corner of the expansive great room (which took up most of the floor plan actually), while Parker was perched in the beams up above. She’d been scurrying around all morning, putting together who knew what, and while he hadn’t lost awareness of her up there, he had kind of stopped paying attention to every movement.

This was the first either of them had spoken all morning too—which was… nice? In its own way. Just. Moving around each other in the same space without needing to keep everything updated. He wasn’t sure how much was due to them being focused on their own stuff and how much was actual comfort around the other, but he hoped it was mostly the latter.

“Um…us?” She scrunched up her nose. Not the right answer then. She didn’t elaborate immediately though—which he took to mean she needed a moment, and so turned back to his wires. He _would_ have a set up to rival what he’d had at Nate’s if it killed him.

“It’s like a con right? Us hiding? So who are we?” He blinked, glancing back up. Right. IDs. He was normally on top of that, but, in his defense, this week had been weird. And would they even need IDs, outside of the ones he was running the deliveries through? If everything went well, they wouldn’t really be interacting with too many people (if everything went _really_ well, they’d be out of here in a couple weeks, at best).

“Do you think we’ll need to?” His gut was saying only as a backup, if they had to scram quick. But Parker was getting a lot better at seeing curveballs coming that he couldn’t. So, if she thought they needed better IDs, he could work on that. Just as soon as these damn wires lined up.

“Who’re the neighbors?”

“An older couple across the road. Been here since the seventies. Two single-parent families to either side of them, been here for the past couple of years. Not a parking ticket to any of their names. ‘Cept the old lady, but that’s from the eighties. And an impressive number at that. The house to the north is owned by one Commander Shelley, who is supposedly stationed in Italy right now, but who knows. He’s not _here_ is the point. House to the south is owned by a Toby Heath, who currently works out of Portland, so it’s probably a vacation home—”

“Someone’s there though.”

Which. Yeah. He’d noticed that too. Hadn’t really gotten a good look at the guy, but he’d seen the dog as it rolled down the hill behind the house. It was a very graceful creature, far as he could tell. Very artful in its flailing. “Maybe he’s a family friend or something? Keep the place up while Heath’s not around?”

“...find out about him? And if we’re in town, maybe have an extra on us?”

He nodded. That could work. No real history to keep updated (already partially taken care of by the house being under one of Sophie’s ancient aliases. He’d found it that first day and… well, damn. He’d been impressed), but the basics in place in case they needed to rabbit.

The rest of that day was spent figuring out tiny details like that. Using none of their accounts (that’s what he had Nate’s for anyway, carefully led through so many shell accounts, even Hardison thought it might be overkill). Using none of Hardison’s handles (he had some new ones he wanted to use anyway). Figuring out where/how they’d be getting groceries (who delivered out this far). Planning the best times to call Nate to wake him up (completely on accident and definitely not payback for hanging up on him, definitely not). Finding where a high quality hardware store was around.

With each detail that fell into place, Hardison felt a little bit more confident that this could work. For a little while, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Parker _

 

It wasn’t that Parker thought their neighbor was weird. It was that he was  _ weirder  _ than everything else. And she couldn’t figure out  _ why _ .

She’d spent the last week and a half mapping out the area, and the people, as best she could. Which, given that it was them and their neighbors in the little valley, a single road connecting them to the highway on one end (a major one, but still, just the one) and the small town on the other, there wasn’t much to explore.

The town was bigger than some they’d passed through to get here, sure, but it still wasn’t much. Large enough to boast a handful of grocery stores, a main street that was actually two stacked up next to each other, and that weird mix of worn down but well loved mom-and-pop stores and shiny new big box stores that meant the town was either going to get much bigger or much smaller in the near future. The people were an odd mix too—they were close enough to a couple ski resorts that any tourists wandering through weren’t any reason to raise an eyebrow, but the center of town was filled with people who knew each other and worked easily around each other.

It was… homey, but stretched thin. Too personal to be cold, too isolated to be inviting. She had been in far worse places, honestly, but it was still weird when she was used to everyone moving around each other without actually  _ acknowledging  _ each other, used to  _ noise  _ rather than the quiet that settled over the town a little after mid-day (she went back, a couple days in a row, just to see if anything changed), used to… people existing on their own. She remembered a couple places like this, some a little smaller, some a little bigger, but all with that spread out, homey feeling, from when she was little. But she had never stayed long enough for it to become  _ normal _ .

She preferred the house, honestly, even if it was even quieter. When the windows and doors were closed and the blinds pulled, it didn’t feel much different than Nate’s apartment, with Hardison muttering at his computers, the soft whir of electronics and the faint, tinny sound of music coming through headphones forgotten off to the side, the smell of that night’s take out permeating most of the main room. If even that was too quiet, they’d already set up a pretty impressive living room theatre. Loud, explosive movies helped.

Back to the neighbor though. She’d seen the neighbors across the road. Mrs. Trent and her son Randy. Mr. Connell and his daughter Molly. The McElroys. They were all what she’d been assured was pretty normal. And, when matched up with the rest of the town, they fit right in. Settled, earthy, a little worn down. They’d all waved to her and Hardison at least once, the few times both of them left the house.

And then there was their other neighbor. Not-Toby, since they hadn’t yet been able to get a name (all the leasing documents were under Toby Heath’s name, his family was restricted to accounted—for siblings elsewhere and a couple, also accounted for, nieces and nephews, and they hadn’t quite gotten around to saying hi to their neighbors, let alone asking after the local gossip. Parker was pretty sure that if Sophie was here, that would’ve been the first thing she did. She kind of wished her and Nate were here).

She hadn’t gone as far as actually trespassing on his land. Yet. And honestly, that was only because of the lack of cover (which was also weird. There were trees dotting the land their house was on, and over everyone else’s. His was completely clear. She couldn’t quite figure out if it was on purpose or not though). She doubted, even if she did get closer, she’d get much. The man seemed to have two modes—either locked up in his house all day, or disappearing at eight in the morning in a beat up old truck (though she did notice a smaller car under a protective cover, the one time she got a look in the garage) and not getting back until well after sundown, coming from the direction of the highway.

The only times she actually got a decent look at him were in the mornings, a little before and during sunrise, when he’d sit out on the porch for a little while. He never stayed out for long, his dog—a big old fluffy thing that Parker kind of wanted to pet to see if its fur was as stringy and soft as it looked—dragging him back inside without fail.

There was too much distance between their places to get a good look at his face, but she could see how he held himself. And she wondered if it would actually hurt him to relax some mornings, and others, if it would hurt to pull himself upright. There didn’t seem to be an option in-between, where he just was, easy and normal.

And, in her defense, she didn’t think he’d noticed her watching. Most people didn’t. She could still startle Hardison almost without fail (he  _ was  _ getting better though. She was kind of proud).

Then, one morning, when she wasn’t even trying to puzzle out the neighbor, or the town, or whether or not it would be okay to call Nate and Sophie, when she was just watching sickly grey morning sweep down the road (some nights she just had too much energy bouncing around to sleep, and it just wasn’t worth it to fight it, and she’d discovered that the roof over their porch was rather comfortable a couple days back), she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

Not-Toby. Holding two… mugs? Maybe? Probably. Regardless, one was raised in her direction before he dropped down in his normal seat.

Immediate instinct was to bolt back into the house and stay there. Preferably until they moved out (which she was still holding out that it’d be a couple weeks rather than a couple months. Nate and Sophie would find something. They’d be able to go home).

But at the same time… perfect time to poke around, right?  Maybe settle a bit of her curiosity and the  _ weird  _ around all of this. Sophie would take the opening. Hardison probably would too. Nate would tell her to be careful in a way that she’d be able to read as either approval or not as needed. She hated that tone; was it the right move or wasn’t it?

She ducked back inside, knocking loud enough on Hardison’s door to wake him up—and getting a squawk and a possibly worrying thump in return (the cursing after assured her that he was fine)—“Neighbor’s offering coffee, back in a bit!”

“Wha—? Park—Parker!” followed her out. Eh, he could follow when he was more awake.

* * *

 

_Hardison_

 

If asked later, Hardison would be rather proud to say that he’d fallen out of bed, gotten dressed, and bolted out the door in less than three minutes. It was a record really. Beat out only by that one time in L.A.

Either way, he wasn’t quick enough to catch Parker before she made it to their neighbor’s property, but apparently she heard him tripping down the front stairs because she stopped and waited for him at least. Small blessings, considering that little sprint had winded him and he needed to take a moment once he reached her—pointedly ignoring her snort.

Waving her on as he got his breath back, he shuffled after her—belatedly realizing just how early it had to be. The light around them was still grey and dew-heavy - it’d be another hour at least before anyone normal would consider it ‘morning’.

“...Parker?”

“He offered coffee. Figured I’d go say hi. Didn’t think you’d get up.” Which, fair. And at least she had tried to let him know before running off. And maybe he’d overreacted. Just a bit. But, in his defense, he wasn’t at his best when only half-awake, at best.

Well. He was up now. Might as well meet the neighbor too.

This was actually the first time he’d gotten a good look at either the man or the house—the latter wasn’t too much smaller than their own, but one storey (maybe with a basement if those were windows along the ground there, hidden by brush), with a wrap-around porch, the wood a dark stain and a little too off-set and new looking from the house to have been an original feature. The large windows scattered around didn’t actually show much—though Hardison couldn’t tell if it was because of the low light, or if they were actually—no, nevermind, they were mirrored. Odd.

He followed Parker up onto the porch, pushing away whatever uneasy feeling the windows were giving him as undue paranoia and waving slightly at their neighbor with a possibly sheepish grin (though he was pretty sure it was more sleepy than anything).

The neighbor waved back, staying in his seat by a small table and two more porch-seats. The man looked…well, rough was a word for it. Tired was another, and Hardison felt a pang of sympathy for the bruise-purple bags under his eyes. From how he was sitting, Hardison couldn’t really guess a height, but he was solid, if a little rumpled around the edges: hair messily pushed back under a red bandana, button up wrinkled and rolled up to his elbows haphazardly.

Belatedly, he realized they weren’t really alone on the porch. And by ‘belatedly,’ he meant when he ended up on his ass with a dog (oof, a heavy one at that) trying desperately to lick at his face.

“Megs!” The dog was hauled off him in the next moment, leaving him blinking, possibly dazed, definitely confused. The neighbor was standing just to the side, holding the now-whining dog by the collar. “The hell’s wrong with you?” he growled (which, what the hell, humans don’t growl, alright. And yet…) The dog yipped once before giving up pulling away from the grip on his collar, going back to whining in a pathetic lump of fur on the porch. “I am so sorry, he’s not normally—we don’t get a lot of—just. He’s a dumbass. I’m sorry,” the man rambled.

“It’s uh, it’s fine. Just startled me is all.” Hardison grinned, because, honestly, being roughed up by an overly affectionate dog was not the worst way to fully wake up in the world. (He was pretty sure that was explosions. Or FBI busting down a door. Either or.)

The man eyed him skeptically, but Hardison just flapped a hand at him. “Really, it’s fine, just wasn’t expecting it is all.” He held out a hand, more intending for Parker, just off to his side and doing her best not to laugh at him (though, he could see the stiffness in her frame—seeing him fall under the dog had probably been about as pleasant as it was for him experiencing it) to help him up. Instead, he got the man taking his hand and hauling him up, with way too much strength way too quickly.

He really couldn’t be blamed if he stumbled because holy hell. Take some pity on his sleepy body and brain, alright. He was not prepared for neighbors that could, apparently, completely lift him without trying.

Thankfully for his dignity, stumbling did not involve actively stumbling  _ into  _ the guy. He was already mortified because he was pretty sure he’d let out an undignified squawk somewhere between being on the ground and being upright again. Didn’t need to add an awkward invasion of personal space to that.

The man just raised an eyebrow at him, a possible tick up at the corner of his mouth that, if Hardison was being generous, he would call a smirk.

“Ah, right. Thanks. So, Megs?” he glanced back down at the still whining fluff-ball. Megs was watching the two of them, big eyes an impressive shade of begging.

“...Megan. Megs. He’s harmless, really. Just… enthusiastic. Damn useless guard dog.” He was grumbling, but he sounded fond and Hardison bit back a grin. Crouching back down, Hardison reached out to give the dog a scratch between his ears.

Apparently satisfied that his dog wasn’t going to maul Hardison again, the man let go and moved back over to the table, grabbing two of the three mugs on it, offering one to Parker and one to him. Megs, content apparently with the attention he was getting, stayed put.

“So, two weeks since you moved in. One week since you started watching my house. Mind telling me what that’s about?” Well, at least he’d let both of them take a sip before he’d dropped that. Hardison was rather proud of himself for not doing an honest spit-take, and proud of Parker for just shrugging. He could see the tension snapping through her, but he doubted their neighbor could.

Neither of them said anything as the man dropped back down into his seat. Well. The lack of yelling and accusing were good signs. In fact, if the look he shot the two of them over his own mug was anything to go by, he was more curious (and possibly amused) than pissed.

Hardison made himself relax, throwing on his cheesiest grin, and shrugging. “Sorry ‘bout that. Still trying to figure out the whole neighbors-who-actually-talk-to-each-other thing you have going on out here.” Which, fair. Hardison had seen everyone else in their little valley chatting with each other. And if he had to play up the out-of-place city kid, he could do that.

“...we weren’t planning on breaking in. Or anything.” The man (and wow they needed to get a name) blinked, glancing over at Parker. Sure,  _ he _ knew she was just trying to be reassuring. Chances were, other people wouldn’t see that.

To his relief, the man just snorted out a surprised-sounding laugh, short and rough. “Right. Good to know. Well then, no harm done, I guess. Name’s Eliot.”

Hardison dropped down to sit cross-legged, since Megs didn’t seem inclined to let him stop petting anytime soon, grinning again, much more real this time. “Hardison.” He dipped his head Parker’s way. “And Parker. Nice to finally meet you. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” It wasn’t as sweet as he normally liked it, but now that he was done switching between panicking and making sure the dog wasn’t going to try to crawl into his lap, he could actually appreciate that whatever Eliot had given them was _good_. And probably expensive as all hell (maybe. He didn’t know coffee, alright? Soda was much quicker to get and didn’t need sugar added to make it palatable. Hell, thinking back on it, this might be the first cup of just straight coffee he’d had in three years, given that, normally, his options were whatever sludge Nate brewed and Starbucks. Which, nothing against Starbucks. But he kept the fridge stocked for a _reason_ , okay).

Parker was perched on the bannister nearby, watching Eliot, and, honestly, the silence probably could’ve been awkward, probably should’ve been. But in the heavy stillness of the valley around them, and all three of them probably running on less than three hours sleep (he knew Parker hadn’t slept much last night—he’d heard her crawling out onto the roof before he’d gone to bed, and as for Eliot, one didn’t get those bags without serious effort), it didn’t seem like any of them were in a hurry to fill the quiet. They could worry about small-talk later.

And that was how Hardison and Parker met Eliot.

* * *

 

_Eliot_

 

Eliot wasn’t entirely sure how that one morning became a regular thing. Two days after their little meet-and-greet (and apparently “reassure concerning possible B&Es”), the woman, Parker, showed up perched on the bannister. She didn’t outright  _ ask  _ for coffee—he got the feeling she was either too nervous or just legitimately didn’t think to ask for it—but he liked to think his mother raised him right, so he’d ended up offering her one anyway. And, just like that, every other day or so—for that first week, then every day for that second week—she’d shown back up, occasionally hauling Hardison with her, though the man always looked either about two steps from falling asleep on his feet, or about as wired as Parker apparently just was naturally.

Eliot would like to say he grumbled and resisted their apparent carte-blanche acceptance of his initial invitation but…

Well, he hadn’t chased her away that second day. And, honestly, though he knew he was catching both of them at their quietest (Parker may actually  _ be  _ that quiet, but Hardison definitely wasn’t. There had been a handful of times where that had started to shine through, their quiet small-talk apparently reminding him of something or another and he’d start talking, perking up more than the coffee managed, only to cut himself off and go quiet again, and maybe Eliot wished he wouldn’t) he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t like the company, overall.

(Sure, in the two weeks they’d been doing this, he’d had a morning or two when he’d just wanted them to go away, too wrung out and prickling at the edges of his skin to give being around people an honest try. Strange thing was, both of them seemed to notice—or one did and alerted the other in one of those weird, silent conversations they seemed to have a lot of—and packed it in earlier than usual those mornings.)

They gave a different energy to his mornings, without disrupting them completely. And maybe it was just that it was new, or different, or whatever, but he wasn’t planning on chasing them off anytime soon.

An odd pair to be sure. One all hard angles, fluttery hands, too-calculating stares, and too-bright smiles (but only when she meant them) and one too big for his skin, soft eyes that knew too much, all energy and action, with quick smiles and easy laughs. They were an odd pair, but they worked.

They seemed…nice, if a little reticent on giving him any actual information. Which, fair, he was too. All he’d gotten so far out of them was that they had moved out here at the suggestion of Parker’s aunt—Parker needed time away from the city, and Hardison needed space to work on a couple of his projects.

And apparently they weren’t a couple. That had honestly thrown him a little. They were comfortable with each other in a way Eliot rarely saw with just friends, had a silent back and forth (that he was pretty sure they didn’t realize he noticed) that usually took too long to develop, and when one wasn’t spoiling his dog (oh yeah, that little moocher had figured out right quick how to get their attention), they were just. In each other’s space. All the time. It  was cute, in a vaguely unsettling sort of way.

Eliot called bullshit on their reason for moving in. But, since they hadn’t decided to call him on his bullshit either—and he knew for a fact they’d caught it. Parker’s eyes were too sharp, Hardison’s expression too carefully neutral. He let it lie, for now, even if originally, it had set his teeth on edge.

But, honestly, they didn’t seem like a bad pair. A little fluttery, a little nervous, and maybe a little too quick on a lie sometimes. But they hadn’t tried to get information out of him—any more than normal small-talk—they weren’t casing the house anymore, and they seemed to relax more every morning around him.

(And maybe, just maybe, he liked the fuzzy edge his mornings with them had taken in so short a time. Bad nights now led to quiet chatter and easy silence, rather than watching heavy morning light and waiting for his dog to come pull him out of his head.)

It was only natural, honestly, that those morning coffees invariably led to him inviting them in for breakfast.

Really.

And, in his defense, he’d originally only offered one morning because both Hardison and Parker’s stomachs had rumbled loudly enough to be comical, and the look on their faces when he’d offered breakfast had been pathetically hopeful enough that he hadn’t let himself think about it too much.

He’d rolled his eyes and hauled himself up, whistling for Megs and heading inside. After a long moment’s pause, they had scrambled in after him.

Which is about when he realized just what his house looked like.

The only people who regularly came by (and by ‘regularly’ he meant in the last six months) were Toby and Shelley. If he went out and met someone, he went home with them, not the other way around. And his neighbors, nice as they were, hadn’t ever had a reason to stop by for more than a chat at the door.

So. It had completely slipped his mind that, oh, right, his house was a goddamned mess.

The walls of the living room itself were in a half-plastered, half-painted limbo, the floor was scuffed wood stained with all manner of colors since he’d given up on replacing the drop cloths, the visible stairs leading to the basement just to the side of the front door were stripped wood that he hadn’t gotten around to finishing yet.

Saving grace? The bathroom that was in a similar state of controlled destruction was currently behind a closed door down the hall. As was the guest room.

At least the kitchen looked decent. That had been his first project when he’d moved out here—and the only one he’d finished and successfully kept himself from restarting again. His kitchen was  _ nice _ , okay? It was completely updated, with simple slate countertops, a large island in the center to match the bar artificially separating the space from the rest of the house and that still left him enough room to move around, a gas range they were pretending Toby bought for the school and ended up not needing... The kitchen was his baby and he took care of it, and it  _ showed _ .

So maybe he shooed Hardison and Parker over to sit at the bar, with their backs to the disaster-zone a little too quickly. Neither of them seemed interested in calling him out on it, at least.

Breakfast that first day wasn’t anything special—pancakes, more coffee, and a quick rundown of how to avoid being tricked into giving Megs half their food.

And, like with the coffee, this too somehow became a regular thing. Not every morning, they were all too busy for that (well, they were, it seemed). But, within another week, sometimes they’d migrate inside as the sun rose that bit higher, and Eliot would make breakfast for the three of them while they continued chatting about anything and nothing.

They never said anything about the state of the house, outside of the occasional questions about his plans. They didn’t try to sneak off and poke their noses around (though, at this point, he got the feeling that that was likely driving Parker up a wall, but he appreciated the effort).

He didn’t really let himself think about how it had taken less than a month for him to invite two strangers into his home when he’d had a grand total of two regular visitors in the past three years. He also didn’t really think about how quickly he had started planning his mornings around them (he wasn’t sure they noticed, yet, that coffee had started just a little bit later. Definitely not in the hopes of getting Hardison to join them more regularly. Absolutely not).

He was enjoying himself. That was enough. And the annoying little voice in the back of his head pointing out that he was going soft, that things weren’t right, that he needed to do  _ something  _ could just keep its opinions to itself.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hardison_

 

“Was Eliot acting weird?”

Hardison blinked, glancing up. They’d gotten back from Eliot’s about an hour ago, both wandering off to do their own thing for a little while before they inevitably met back up to figure out what was still edible in the kitchen for lunch.

He couldn’t say he’d have predicted how regular their trips to their neighbor’s would become but, honestly, he also couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it (even if he still thought Parker and Eliot woke up way too early. Both of them had just snorted at him when he’d pointed that out).

Sure, the man was about as open as Parker on a good day, and they hadn’t been able to get a last name out of him, and Hardison was stuck running a (half-hearted, at best) facial scan from a picture Parker had taken. All they really had on him besides the first name was that he was ex-military - there was a picture of Eliot and another man that they’d later discovered was Shelley-the-missing-neighbor, hanging in the hallway, both dressed in beat-up uniforms that Hardison knew had some regulation name, but that he just knew as camo. Eliot had to be in his early twenties at the absolute oldest in that picture, and it had taken a good couple of seconds to realize that even _was_ Eliot, the dissonance between the smiling, dust-stained kid and the rough-edged man banging around the kitchen in front of them was so bad. The picture hadn’t been there the next day.

So, yeah. Eliot Something, ex-military in the last fifteen or so years. They didn’t have much.

(Not for lack of trying mind you. But, since they were all still tip-toeing around each other, questions and small-talk tended to be superficial at best. They knew Eliot liked either coffee so dark Nate would be proud, or with enough sugar to make even Parker blanche, no in between. They knew Eliot liked red, but refused to claim a favorite color. They knew he hated beets with surprising intensity. They knew he had Opinions about Top Chef, and Chopped, and Cutthroat Kitchen. They knew he was criminally underexposed to a truly terrifying number of cinematic classics—which Hardison was possibly planning on fixing as soon as he could figure out how.

But they had no idea where he grew up. If he had any family. What he’d done after the military. What he’d been doing before he ended up here. _Why_ he ended up here. Where or when he got Megs. Who names their dog Megan. Who the hell Toby was to him. If he had an actual job.)

Nothing had popped up yet on the scan, and he wasn’t too invested in the results outside of normal curiosity at this point. No news was good news in this case.

Beyond all that, he was just… well. Not nice. A bit too gruff for that. Hardison had only managed to get a handful of smiles out of the guy since the first day, and they hadn’t had a morning yet where Eliot didn’t start off looking a little rough and beat around the edges. But, maybe settled? Steady. He took Parker’s more unusual conversations in stride (and Hardison had maybe had a bit of heart attack when she had started talking safe-cracking one morning, but Eliot hadn’t even blinked), didn’t seem to mind Hardison’s ramblings when he was awake enough to provide them (outside of the occasional eye roll that was normally followed by an “English, man. English,” but not a “shut up,” so Hardison would take that as a win), and even better, seemed completely fine with regularly making them breakfast and putting up with their weird segues and stories that normally required said segues when they got too close to describing definitely-not-legal parts of their cons.

And, bonus, Megs seemed to love them. Or the pancake bits they fed him when Eliot wasn’t looking. Either or.

Hardison couldn’t say he expected the whole. Cooking, thing. From looking at the guy, the demolition site that was his living room made more sense than the high-end kitchen. But, hey. Free pancakes. Free damn good pancakes. And omelettes. Crepes that one morning. Honest to god bacon and grits another. Fancy French things he couldn’t pronounce one morning (when they decided not to bring up the bags under the man’s eyes, though that decision was only after a very intense eye-conversation).

So, yeah, maybe Hardison was forgiving a bit in the name of food. But, honestly, there just wasn’t a whole lot he _had_ to forgive. Surly secretiveness did not an evil mastermind make, no matter what Nate said.

...there had been a question in there somewhere, if Parker staring at him was anything to go by. He blinked up at her again, putting on his best ‘please, repeat’ face. She snorted down at him but grinned.

“Was Eliot acting weird?”

He paused, considering for a moment. He hadn’t noticed anything in particular—nothing that couldn’t be explained by simply not knowing the man for very long. But…

“What’d you see?” Just because he hadn’t seen anything, didn’t mean she hadn’t. And it may be nothing—like that time they had to be sure Parker didn’t really think Sophie was dead.

She took a long moment, stretching out to lay on the beam above him, picking over whatever it was she wanted to say.

“He seemed… light, this morning.” He could practically hear her scrunching up her face, tossing that word out. “Fluttery. He’s normally heavy, right?” What he’d been calling settled. He could see how that translated to heavy—especially in Parker terms. Parker never stopped moving, always light on her feet and moving almost faster than anyone else could follow. For her, someone like Eliot, who moved with a sure weight to his steps and stayed stooped low most mornings, would definitely qualify as heavy.

“You think something’s up? Maybe he just didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s normal.” Which, true. “It wasn’t a bad morning. He just couldn’t stay still.” He nodded along, even if he hadn’t really seen it. But, he’d been near face down in his plate, only half-awake and barely able to follow along with the minimal conversation going on above his head. He was willing to trust her on this, was the point.

“Okay, did you want to do something about it?”

“...ask him tomorrow?”

He nodded again, grinning slightly when she perked up. Mission set then.

* * *

Parker didn’t get a chance to ask Eliot the next morning. Setting out that morning had started weird—Eliot hadn’t been out on his porch when they left, like he normally was. Megs wasn’t barking and scrabbling across the wood. And now that they were actually at the porch, they could see that the house was dark, and Hardison was willing to bet the truck was gone from the garage.

So, Eliot had something to do this morning. It was fine. Not like the break in their morning habit had woken up Hardison more than any pot of coffee would—and immediately sent guilt curling through his gut. They’d literally only been doing coffee for less than a month now, breakfast less than two weeks. Eliot had his own life outside of them, and since they’d never actually talked about any of this, it was perfectly in his right to bail on them if something came u—oh thank god, there was a note, taped to the table.

“Still haven’t given me your numbers. Had to leave early. See you tomorrow.” Parker read out.

Okay, well, the phone thing would be fixed immediately in the morning at least. “Looks like we’re on our own for the day.” He tried to keep a light tone—he was feeling better, but he could tell Parker wasn’t, if the way she was eyeing the house was anything to go by. “...we promised no B and Es remember?” She huffed at him but cracked a grin and relaxed.

So, back to the house for the day—there were a couple of tangles Hardison wanted to start poking at anyway, and the earlier he started, the sooner it’d be done. Hopefully anyway.

The rest of the day was…uneventful, really.

Like pretty much every day since they’d gotten there.

Hardison stayed at his desk for most of it, occasionally popping his head up to breathe, occasionally seeing Parker from the corner of his eye. They didn’t talk much—he’s pretty sure there’d been one or two “need anythings?”—but he never really lost track of her, not completely. She’d ghost in and out of the living room, fiddling with something or other, then going to poke around the kitchen or flopping on the couch a couple feet away to flip on the tv.

He was hit—as he’d been, more than a couple times these past couple of days—that while Nate’s apartment had been nice like this, with them quiet and existing in the same space, it hadn’t been quite this seamless. There had always been the chance of Nate or Sophie blustering through, or something happening in the pub downstairs, or a client wandering in—or, even more importantly, Parker just ducking out the window and disappearing for hours to burn off some energy, or go check on something she’d remembered and didn’t want to wait around for, or who knew what.

Here though, for all that the quiet still unnerved both of them, they were settling, and he could feel it—could feel Parker’s nervous energy smoothing out and fitting up just right with his more erratic nerves. They didn’t need to talk. Neither was high strung enough to need to fill the quiet with more than white noise. They were as relaxed as people like them ever got, and as much as Hardison hated the situation that brought them out here—and _that_ , that still sat like a hot coal in the pit of his stomach if he thought about it too hard, so he didn’t—he was kind of happy that things were shaping up like they were.

Having Parker so easily in his space, and her letting him into hers, was just _nice_. And while, sometimes, he looked back on their conversation from months ago, and knew he’d wish for more like one might wish for something sweet, he also knew that this mellow feeling, this simple movement around each other, even during what by all rights should be a mess and a half…he wouldn’t trade it for the world. She was his friend, first and foremost, and he was more relieved than he cared to admit that that hadn’t gone out the window.

He didn’t really resurface until later that… night? Yeah, it was night, judging by the windows (numbers were starting to look a little blurry, so the clock wasn’t helpful). It took him a couple moments to pick out _why_ he’d resurfaced, though—he was chasing a lead and wasn’t anywhere near coming out on top of it yet, so he wasn’t done, and Parker was still on the couch like she’d been for the last hour or so, so nothing new there.

There was a sound at the door—scratching. And…whining? The hell?

Parker was the first one to actually get up to go take a look—either because Hardison had read up plenty on just what Nature to expect this far away from civilization and didn’t fancy a run in with a particularly brave coyote or clever mountain lion, no thank you, and therefore was not going to, or because she was too curious not to, Hardison didn’t know.

He couldn’t see through the door when she opened it, not from the angle his setup was at, but it honestly didn’t matter. One moment, she was cautiously peeking through the window, the next, she was flinging the door open and a black and white blur was bolting in, scrabbling across the hardwood floors and heading straight for Hardison. He was barely able to push away from his computers before he had half a lapful of over-excitable Collie.

Despite the suddenness and that vague moment of terror everyone gets when something unknown crashes into them (...that’s universal right?) he couldn’t help laughing as soon as his brain caught up with the fact that it was just Megs.

Both of them weren’t going to fit in the chair, so Hardison did the only thing he could and slid to the ground, squawking and laughing as Megs did his absolute best to lick at his face, while Parker giggled at them, coming over to try to pet the wiggling mass of fur.

They only heard the whistle because Megs was suddenly upright between them, ears perked towards the door. It came again, closer this time, and Megs huffed and lumbered up, shaking himself out and trotting back to the door, looking for all the world as put out and miserable as only a dog could.

Parker followed him, poking her head out the door. “Hey, Eliot! He’s over here!” There was cursing loud enough for Hardison to hear from his spot on the floor and a couple long moments before Eliot came into view, damn near sliding across the porch as he tried to slow out of a run.

Megs, having seen that his owner was in fact coming to him instead, had stopped and flopped against Parker’s side and looking as smug as Hardison had ever seen a dog look—completely oblivious to Eliot’s dark glare. Hardison, having apparently a better honed survival-instinct, winced, pushing himself up and slipping over to stand by Parker.

“Hey, sorry. Didn’t realize he’d run from you,” he offered, playing up his best ‘we are absolutely innocent’ smile. Eliot didn’t look like he was buying it. Which, to be fair, Nana hadn’t either. Or Parker. Or Sophie.

(He could still get Nate though, sometimes, so that was something.)

He watched Eliot visibly pull in a breath, bite back whatever he was about to snap. “...sorry he…invaded,” he muttered, eyeing a spot just past the three of them. Hardison glanced over—and, yep, those were scratch marks, probably from when Megs went skidding.

Hardison just flipped a hand. “It’s cool man. We don’t mind.” Parker enthusiastically nodded, ducking back down to run her fingers through a very happy-looking Megs’ fur. Eliot blinked between them for a moment before sighing and scrubbing a hand down his face, clearly giving up that fight.

“Right. Still, you’d think by now he’d have some damn manners—yes, I’m talking about you, you mutt. You spent all day getting treats from everyone, and yes, I saw them, but that wasn’t enough, huh?” Hardison thought it was a pretty valiant effort on his part, trying not to laugh as Eliot switched his attention to the dog. He was still glaring sure, but Hardison could hear the fondness in his tone, and he’s pretty sure the dog could too, since he didn’t make a move to pull away from Parker. “I’m sorry, he still hates car rides—gets antsy or something, bolts as soon as we get out.” He rolled a shoulder, clearly more than a little embarrassed now that things were calming down.

“Again, totally fi—”

“Were you okay yesterday?” Parker piped up, glancing up from where she was still petting a very happy Megs, and, oh, right, the conversation from this morning. Eliot blinked at them, clearly taking a moment to switch conversations. He didn’t tense, when he caught up, but something in his stance changed that made Hardison look just a little closer. They may not have known him for very long, but Hardison was pretty sure that shift was the equivalent of a full body flinch from most people.

“...just tired, was all.” Parker narrowed her eyes at him, and Hardison couldn’t really blame her. That was weak, considering they knew he could lie and side-step with the best of them (which, really, should be far more unsettling than it was. Maybe he did have the same survival-instincts as the damn dog).

“You good?” Hardison hedged before Parker could ask something else. He was curious too, honestly, to know how much they could ask before Eliot snapped at them to back off but, at the same time, poking that proverbial bear with a stick could cost them more than getting a straight answer was frankly worth. And the look Eliot shot him was enough to let Hardison know he appreciated the out.

“I’m fine.” He glanced down at Parker, tight expression softening just a bit, “Promise.” That seemed to settle her at least, or maybe it was Megs full body slouching against her to get her attention back.

It took about four seconds for the silence that followed to become…well, not awkward. But it wasn’t as light as their morning silences either—all three of them too awake, too aware of each other, to fall back on that right now it seemed. And if it stretched for too long before Eliot figured out how to extract his dog and get home, it would definitely tip over into awkward.

Which was definitely the only reason Hardison opens his mouth, “We were just about to order some dinner. You wanna stick around?” Eliot kind of just looked at him for a moment, clearly going over _something_ in his head, before something else settled, his shoulders relaxing out of a tense Hardison hadn’t even noticed until it was gone.

“Sure, that…sounds great actually,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pocket and offering a small but genuine smile. Hardison grinned back, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out, just over-dramatic enough to get an eyeroll.

“Come on then. We can work on your truly heartbreaking lack of movie appreciation while we wait. Pizza okay?” And another eyeroll, but also a grin Eliot couldn’t quite bite back. Though he did a good job of hiding it by scowling down at Megs for a moment when the dog perked up at the word ‘pizza’.

“That’s fine. You feed my dog any of that though and we’re gonna have to talk. You two already feed him too much.” So he had noticed that at breakfast, whoops. He didn’t look really angry though—more like his normal gruff, grumpy front (...Hardison was like, 90% sure it was a front anyway. Maybe 80%), so Hardison didn’t pay much mind, pulling out his phone to get their order in.

It was probably a little sad, just how quick that order went through. They’d become very, very familiar with every place that would deliver out to them in the past couple of weeks (there weren’t many), to the point that most places barely needed his confirmation on the actual order.

Eliot raised an eyebrow at him when he hung up not two minutes later, but didn’t say anything, just shook his head.

“Alright. What’s so great about that Star Wars crap you were talking about last week?” Hardison did not squeak. He didn’t.

He didn’t, because he caught the smirk Eliot wasn’t quite quick enough to smother and knew he was being goaded from the beginning, alright? He _knew_.

(...alright, maybe he squeaked, and Parker snorted at him, and he was already geared up for a rant before he caught everything. And then he was just left with a light feeling in his chest when he caught the ‘last week’ part, because he now had proof Eliot was actually listening to his half-awake ramblings. So, he figured it was a fair trade off.)

“...not cool, E. Not cool. Just for that, we’re watching all three. Completely your fault.”

Eliot rolled his eyes (if he didn’t quit that soon, he was pretty sure Eliot was going to pull something), but honestly, didn’t look too put out, all things considered.

“We’ll see Hardison,” he grumbled, but let Parker shoo him to the couch while Hardison went to load everything up. The food would take about 45 minutes (55, if they got Kyle as a delivery driver again. Kid was nice enough, but damn he could _not_ drive and wow they ordered from there too much), so, plenty of time to get into _A New Hope_.

As soon as the three of them were settled—Eliot at one end of the massive couch, Hardison in the middle, and Parker at the other end—Megs hopped up and stretched across Hardison’s lap, somehow managing to get into both Parker and Eliot’s space as well, his head in Parker’s lap and his tail thumping against Eliot’s chest. Eliot grumbled something under his breath, but made no move to shove the dog away, so Hardison figured it wasn’t anything too bad.

* * *

The pizza took 55 minutes, almost exactly. Hardison hadn’t wanted to pause the movie, not really, since he’d seen it plenty of times, and it’d take maybe three minutes tops to get back, but Eliot made a comment about needing a drink, and the whole thing just turned into a break. Since he wasn’t making a break for the door, Hardison figured it was fine. He tipped the kid enough to make the drive out here worth it—which he’s pretty sure was the only reason the manager over there let them get away with it—and headed into the kitchen. While him and Parker had absolutely no problem eating from the box on the coffee table, he figured if they had guests, they could at least act like put-together adults.

He found Eliot in the kitchen—not as nice as his, but as nice as a house Sophie owned could be expected to have—looking… well, disturbed was a good word for it.

“...do you have anything in here that’s not take-out or tossed in a microwave? ...or cereal?” Ah. That would do it.

Sure, him and Parker went grocery shopping. And sure, Hardison, if pressed, could cook a few basic things—and Parker could make a mean tamale—but neither of them particularly _liked_ cooking. So, whatever was quickest and tasted good. And at least he didn’t comment on the orange soda.

Hardison felt it’d probably be best to play up the innocent look again (even if it hadn’t worked the first time, maybe it would this time), giving him a big grin and subtly pushing the stack of pizzas closer, because maybe that’d distract him.

“How long’ve you two been here?”

Hardison knew he knew damn well how long. Coming up on two months now. Two very long, very quiet months. So, he shrugged, smile turning sheepish.

“...Right. You busy tomorrow?”

Haridson paused, blinking at the question. That was out of nowh—

“We’re going grocery shopping, and I’m stealing your kitchen.” Okay, not out of nowhere then.

Hardison really couldn’t find a reason to tell Eliot ‘no’—though he was having a harder time not laughing at the downright offended look Eliot threw the cabinets Hardison knew were either empty or filled with Parker’s cereal—so he just shrugged. “Sounds good to me.” He agreed, easy as anything.

“Sounds fun!” Parker piped up from the couch.

Eliot nodded, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary, and Hardison’s pretty sure he took half of one of the pizzas out of some weird determination to not leave too many leftovers, since surviving on pizza was apparently not a thing he approved of, but whatever. With all of that settled, they all ended up on the couch again, plates in hand, and Megs relegated to the floor, doing his damned best to beg food off them. Their own fault of course—feeding him pieces of their breakfast apparently marked them out as easy targets.

(They both had to share a look though, when Eliot ended up giving one of his pizza crusts to him—just the one, but still. They wisely decided not to say anything about it.)


	4. Chapter 4

_ Parker  _

 

Parker’s pretty sure Eliot started regretting dragging them to the grocery store right about the time he fished another box of hot pockets out of the cart and put them back while staring Hardison dead in the eye. Hardison, for his part, smiled that big goofy grin that had taken her awhile to realize was his ‘who? me?’ look. It was pretty good, all things considered. Not that it seemed to do much for Eliot.

“Dammit, Hardison—you want them so bad, you can come back and get them. It ain’t that hard.” He had a point—even if neither of them really liked coming here. They’d tried, a couple times those first few weeks, and then sporadically since then. It was always filled with too many people for Parker, took too long for Hardison, and just generally wasn’t something they enjoyed doing.

Parker was reconsidering though as Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long sigh, which, conveniently, covered the sound of Hardison dropping a bag of chips into the cart. When Eliot opened his eyes again, he blinked at the cart, then Hardison, going almost completely still. It was kind of cool to watch, actually.

“How old’re you?” he growled out, grabbing the chips and tossing them at Hardison’s chest—which reminded her, they needed to work on his reflexes at some point—before pushing the cart back towards the deli area. Hardison lasted until Eliot rounded the aisle before cracking up laughing and shaking his head, putting the chips back and bolting after Eliot.

Parker rolled her eyes, snagging a bag of popcorn and opening it to snack on (she figured, if someone paid for it, it wouldn’t be a problem, right?) before following them. This was going to take awhile.

* * *

Surprisingly, they all made it home in one piece. Hardison didn’t get his hot pockets, and Eliot had just given her a look she figured amounted to _really?_ when he’d seen the popcorn, but he’d paid for it without a word. She was pretty sure Hardison felt as funky as she did, letting him pay—the look he shot her when Eliot wasn’t looking said as much—but he didn’t say anything so she didn’t either.

When they got back, it was nearing on late afternoon, the heat of the day settling into the valley and promising to hold over until well into the night in a way Parker was still trying to figure out if it was just how the area was or if it was the last kick of summer. Eliot left them long enough to go get Megs, who promptly made himself at home sprawled across their couch while his owner commandeered their kitchen. They didn’t have a bar like Eliot did, and the table was currently overloaded with bits of computer, rope and papers as it had been since they moved in, so Parker hopped up on the counter close to where Eliot was working while Hardison leaned against the island, carefully out of the way.

Eliot didn’t immediately banish them despite some looks their way as he set out a couple ingredients he had bought (which she was only just now getting a look at, because what had been going _in_ the cart had not been nearly as interesting as what had been going on _around_ the cart. Looked like pasta), so Parker figured he was cool with them watching.

It was just like their breakfasts really—and the silence that settled as Eliot got to work just cemented that for her, that same morning heaviness settling in comfortably around them. He didn’t seem to be tripped up by the different  kitchen layout, moving in it as easily as his own, finding dishes she didn’t even know were there—and why would she? She needed bowls, forks and spoons. Maybe a knife. If absolutely pressed, she could boil something, but that pot was in the cabinet to the lef—he found it just fine.

The pseudo-morning silence lasted maybe fifteen minutes, because, as much as her and Hardison enjoyed it, neither of them were sleepy enough or distracted enough to stay _that_ quiet for _that_ long.

Eliot didn’t snap at him to shut it when Hardison started chattering about Star Wars. They’d indeed made it through all three movies last night. Parker liked them, even if she didn’t quite get Hardison’s obsession (but that was okay—he didn’t get her rigs, but he still told her they were cool). And while he lightly tapped her hand away (unerringly, too. That was something important, she was sure of it) with whatever blunt instruments were in his hands whenever she tried to steal a taste (knives switched hands without a hitch so he could flick her knuckles if needed), he never actually told her to stop.

If anything, he looked _more_ relaxed than when he did in the mornings, and she didn’t know if that was because he’d had more time to get his footing, unlike in the mornings when they ambushed him right after he’d woken up, or because he actually _was_ more relaxed.

She didn’t think that was something she could just ask, so she tucked it away, for now, to be looked at again later when she had more to compare it to. Like how she’d tucked away Eliot’s lie last night—one of many he’d given them, but none had raised her hackles like him standing in their doorway, holding himself tense enough to snap, brittle smile sharp and promise ringing as hollow as Nate’s sometimes did. He hadn’t been ‘fine,’ despite relaxing when Hardison had invited him in.

Parker was pretty sure ‘fine’ didn’t cover anything until towards the end of the second movie, when she’d heard him breathe out, fast and low, and she’d seen him lose what was left of the heavy set to his shoulders. She doesn’t think Hardison saw, but since it had been a lie that had formed into a truth, she hadn’t seen a need to bring it up, even when Eliot had slipped out afterwards.

(She does wonder, vaguely, if lies like that taste as bitter to him as Sophie says they tend to to most people. She can’t imagine they do—or maybe he’s just used to it, since he cooks so much. Finds a use for it, along with the spicy and sweet and salty.)

She just barely caught the small not-grin (where his nose crinkled up, pulling the wrinkles around his eyes deeper. She’s pretty sure it was supposed to make him look angry, since he wasn’t actually _smiling_ , but his eyes were too bright for that) as Hardison started in on puppet Yoda, and she couldn’t help it—she reached over to lightly poke his cheek, a big grin on her own face as his hand came up to swat hers away again, only aiming much lower, where her hand would be if she’d been going for the food again.

(So, corner of his eyes, not actually tracking all her movements. Good to know.)

He goes still again, like he had in the grocery store, before turning to blink at her, a very clear _what?_ on his face. She snatches a piece of…cheese apparently, while he’s looking at her, distracted, smile getting brighter when he huffs and grumbles and pointedly pushes her (with a careful hand) another foot down the counter, away from the food.

She leaves him be (mostly). And really only because the kitchen at this point as gotten warm and whatever he’s cooking smells _good_ and she thinks she likes how this quiet—not silence, not with Hardison still chattering and lighting up and Eliot occasionally sniping back, just to get a rise out of him, but everything’s mellow and easy—better than the quiet of the mornings.

Or maybe they’re different, and she doesn’t need to pick a better one.

“...does this change breakfast? If you cook dinner for us?” Hardison stops mid-puppet Yoda rant, giving her a curious smile (he has no idea what she’s talking about, but is giving her the moment. And she really needs to start listening before interrupting—something to pay attention to soon), while Eliot spares her a glance over his shoulder before returning to dicing onions.

“Unless you two suddenly plan on cooking for yourselves, I don’t see why it would.” He paused, glancing back over his shoulder again, at Hardison this time. She couldn’t see his expression, but there was a line to his shoulders—a bit of steel there that only bent again when Hardison shrugged and raised his hands.

“Hot pockets and take out offend you that much, we won’t say no to having you over here.” He’s trying to play it cool, but Parker can see he’s just as happy about the idea as she is, eyes bright and smile easy. She shoots him a grin and a thumbs up that he returns with all the cheesiness she’s been assured the move deserves as soon as Eliot has turned back to the stove.

“How old’re ya’ll again?” Well, guess they weren’t subtle then. He’s trying to sound as mad as he did in the grocery store—and she thinks he might’ve gotten away with it if she couldn’t see his face—eyes bright and trying not to laugh. He wasn’t fooling either of them.

* * *

Despite the threats—promises—after dinner that night, Eliot didn’t invade their space nearly as often as they invaded his. That first dinner—some pasta dish Parker hadn’t been paying enough attention to catch the name of but that had tasted amazing—became a bi-weekly thing. Or, at least, it would be, Parker imagined, if they did this longer than the two weeks they’d been doing it.

At what point did pattern set in? Their breakfasts still weren’t daily things—coffee was though, or as near as.

Point was, after that first dinner, the next two weeks? Her and Hardison saw Eliot every day except three.

Despite that, she’s not sure when the switch happened.

They’re sitting out on the porch, like normal. The sun’s sitting heavy, low in the sky, the last of the grey morning just now starting to dissipate. A chill’s started, this last week, that Parker can’t help but find comforting in its sharpness. Eliot hasn’t said anything about breakfast yet—and, she’s rather proud to point out, they haven’t been rude about that. It’s always him who offers. Only fair really, and if Parker’s suspicions are correct, he won’t at all today.

It took her a good half hour to notice, which, she’ll happily blame on being more interested in Megs and Hardison chattering about his latest game. Neither her nor Eliot have any idea what he’s talking about—too much jargon and way too fast-paced—but he’s excited about it, so they’re happy to listen. Or, at least, she is. She’s pretty sure the look Eliot shot her means he is too though.

But—important part. Eliot’s not drinking his normal coffee. Sure, he gave them their usual—sweetened to the point of looking caramel, which Parker normally takes to mean it’s been a good night (extra time taken, not rushing through anything), but his was…tea. As far as she could tell. Nothing like Sophie’s Earl Grey—or what she’d told Parker was Earl Grey. This looked warmer, and when she stole a taste when Eliot disappeared inside for a moment with Megs, it tasted more citrusy.

Not that that meant it tasted _good_. Hardison just muttered something about that being what she got for sneaking a taste when she pulled a face at it.

When Eliot came back outside, he took one look at her before rolling his eyes. “If you wanted a taste Parker, you could’ve asked.” It was the most he’d spoken all morning—and with that, the caramel sweet of her coffee didn’t taste as nice.

Normally, sure, sweetened coffee first thing for the two of them meant Eliot was doing okay. But, it also meant he could’ve just. Not slept. Enough time to shower and make himself look normal to cover it, but that wouldn’t hide the rough, scraped edge to his voice. Hardison noticed it too, frowning and only half-hiding it with his mug.

He didn’t say anything about it though, and neither did Parker.

They weren’t invited in that morning. Or the next. And what had been the start of a habitual Thursday dinner (it would’ve been the second, was that enough?) was called off. The morning after that, Parker realized just how good Eliot had looked these past couple of weeks, despite the hiccup here and there. And she only noticed now, because _now_ he looked as rough as he had that first day they’d met him.

Messy hair pushed under a folded bandana, shirt wrinkled and sleeves pushed haphazardly up, bruised smears just starting to shadow his eyes. And still drinking that tea.

She hated the smell of it by now.

But—and it’s probably the only reason she kept following Hardison’s lead of keeping quiet—he dredged up a genuine, small smile for them that morning. Invited them in for breakfast—which ended up being impressively massive omelets and a stack of chocolate chip pancakes—despite Parker knowing he hated putting anything besides fruit in pancakes.

So, bribe or apology. She almost didn’t want to touch them, in case they turned as bitter in her mouth as the coffee had three days ago.

“I’m going to be out of town this weekend. Should be back by Monday, maybe Sunday night. Dinner that night if I’m back in time?” He said it in a rush, his back to them, flipping an omelet for himself, shoulders hunched and small—he looked about as uncomfortable as he sounded. Apology pancakes then. Those didn’t tend to taste bitter, so she dug in, defending the stack from Hardison.

“Sounds good, man,” is Hardison’s too-casual response—and she notices he’s careful to keep his attention on trying to get the pancakes rather than Eliot’s tense back. “We’ll give you our number—finally, by the way, what the hell, E—and you can let us know?”

 _Something_ breaks in the air between the three of them—relaxes for the first time in days, and she’s pretty sure it’s not just Eliot’s shoulders. He tosses a look a over his shoulder, meeting Parker’s eyes for a moment, a faint pinch to his eyes, despite a small smile.

“...can you make something with oranges?” She offers after a moment—she’s pretty sure that’s what he’s looking for, and she wants something to get that tea taste out of the back of her mind. He blinks at her, then snorts, smiling wider, the pinch disappearing.

“I’ll see what I can do.” And that was that.


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Hardison_

 

Eliot didn’t text them Friday night or Saturday. Not that Hardison had been  _ expecting _ him to. Being out of town  _ generally  _ meant someone was busy doing their own thing. And as much as they were friends—and they had to be at this point right? Eliot didn’t talk about any other friends outside of the vague mention here and there of Shelley, unnamed army (which hey, got the branch finally) buddies, and once, Toby, let alone anyone else he regularly let into his house so that had to count for something—but…

No, alright, he had been expecting something. Even just a general ‘have your number now’ text. He felt a little better about it when he realized Parker was side-eyeing his phone all Saturday too.

He couldn’t help it, honestly. Sure, they’d fallen into everything pretty fast, especially considering all they still didn’t know about each other, but Eliot was their friend and the only person outside the house they’d connected with. He could argue they had a similarly insular relationship with Nate and Sophie—except that’d be a lie, because even then, he’d been friendly with the staff and regulars down at the pub, and he used to keep in contact with their old clients here and there.

Now, though. Their world was narrowed down to him and Parker, a handful of new internet friends (which, when he found out who had found those accounts and blanked them after they ran, he was going to rain down holy hell fire. Some of those had taken  _ years _ . Not that he couldn’t get literally everything back—but it was the principle of the thing, since he was pretty sure they only did it because they were vaguely connected to actual aliases of his, and that was pretty fucking petty), and the rotating list of delivery drivers. Sure, he played nice when he went into town, said hi to vaguely familiar faces, caught names here and there—but. Eliot was, frankly, the only important human connection they had outside the house.

And that was just depressing. But at the same time, Hardison didn’t mind it too much.

(He  _ would  _ mind, he knew, if this dragged on too long though. He was a social person. He needed more than two people, alright? But, for now, he could deal.)

Really, he was having the same reaction he’d had when he first realized Parker and him were well and truly stuck out here for awhile. We wished the circumstances were different, but he didn’t actually begrudge the result. Him and Parker got to stay together, without the day-to-day stress of managing Leverage, Inc. (just the stress of salvaging it, but that was  _ not _ the point right now). They got to meet Eliot and fall into a friendship built on a mutual understanding of leaving well enough alone and food (and sleepy mornings, overexcitable dogs, kitchen rants, warm dinners, movie rants, accepted quirks…you know what, that sounded much better than the ‘leave well enough alone’ did).

There was a point there.

Right. Texts. Eliot hadn’t texted, and with it already hitting five in the evening on Sunday, it looked like they wouldn’t be seeing him until tomorrow. Parker had given up side-eyeing the phone sometime this morning—about the same time she’d started glaring out the kitchen window over a bowl of cereal, and before she’d vanished to do…something. He didn’t know.

There was an…edginess to their space, now. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se. Just. New.

(They both got attached, and  _ fast _ . He knew it, he’s pretty sure Parker knew it. It was something they’d both need to work on if Eliot was going to keep living his life, as he should. And if they were going to leave soon anyway.)

It was also, apparently, noticeable enough, that when Nate called, he took all of thirty seconds to ask what was wrong. Hardison kind of just blinked at him from the couch—Nate’s face up on the tv, Sophie somewhere behind him if the noise was anything to go by. They were somewhere in Malta (he knew exactly where in Malta, but that didn’t really seem relevant), and, for all that he knew the stress of the situation had to be eating at them, Nate looked good. Which either meant Nate had a handle on the alcohol for now, or he’d spruced up enough to call and make it look like he did. He’d know if Sophie came into frame.

“Nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong? We’re totally fine out here, in the middle of nowhere. While you’re at a vacation destination in the Mediterranean. Which, really? How is that a thing—why is that a thing? The hotel in Dubai was already overkill—yes, I tracked you there, yes, I destroyed the covers you used, don’t insult me like that Nate, though a heads up would’ve been nice—what could you possibly be looking for in Malta—”

“You’re babbling, Hardison,” Sophie called from somewhere to Nate’s left.

“Moreau stopped by a little while ago—we’re just seeing what’s left for now. Keeping an eye out,” Nate added, sounding pointed on that last part.

“Am not,” he muttered. “And yeah, yeah, Nate. Haven’t been able to get much on this side. Your friend”—he ignored Nate’s grimace at that. He’d already had an ‘I told you so’ moment about the Italian or whatever they were calling her, “wiped out most of our recent aliases—a couple warehouses that led back to Parker, a safe house they probably thought was Sophie’s but couldn’t be sure. They’re nowhere near here, and most of Sophie’s old, old connections are still okay, but that might just be taking them some time.” And didn’t that just scathe, how her network was still vaguely standing while his was crumbling under his feet.

He was one of the best—could prove it, time and time again, could get better and better to make sure it stayed true—but he was one person. Whatever connections that woman had? They were much more than his team of one. When he finished clean up—which, frankly, was what he was stuck to for a little while yet—he’d have to figure out how to turn that to his advantage (he’d done it before, he could—he  _ would _ do it again).

Speaking of which…he hauled the laptop he’d dropped on the couch cushion beside him into his lap. He wanted to double check one of the last aliases they hadn’t nuked yet—an old, old one, one of his first actually. It was clumsy, a bit heavy-handed. But if they hadn’t found it—

“Hardison.” Nate could wait a moment, or Parker could answer instead—he’d heard the front door opening a moment ago, meaning she’d probably been out on the roof for a little while. “Hardison.”

“Just a sec—”

“Hardison!”

“What, Nate?” he snapped, glancing back up with the intent to glare at the man, only to pause. Nate wasn’t looking at him—he was looking behind him. Which. Okay. Maybe it’s just Parker trying to freak Nate out. Wouldn’t be the first time.

(Nate’s expression was telling him ‘no’ on that though.)

“...Nate. What exactly are you looking at?” He’d turn around as soon as Nate confirmed it wasn’t something murderous. He was getting prepared to bolt off the couch and didn’t have a second to turn around, that was all.

“...Parker said I could come in,” was all he heard before he had about half a second to save his laptop from being knocked over by Megs as he loped around the couch.

“Eliot?!” His voice did not squeak, it didn’t. But the laptop did lose its place and only just landed on the other side of the couch before Hardison found himself wrapping his arms around a flailing pile of fluff. Eliot leaned over the back of the couch, fighting back a smirk and doing absolutely nothing to help (in fact, Hardison was pretty sure his hands stayed firmly in the pockets of his jacket—nope, wait, he had a grocery bag in one hand. Fine).

“Hey. Sorry, Parker waved us in. Said she’d be down in a minute.” Hardison huffed at him, shoving a curious snout down away from his face and scratching at fluffy ears to placate the whine that got him.

“You were supposed to text us, man.” He was trying for scolding, but even he couldn’t kid himself—he was way too pleased to see the other man to make a good effort of it. At least Eliot looked sheepish anyway—and wasn’t that a look for him? Made him look younger, easier set.

(Some little voice in the back of his head piped up that it was a  _ good  _ look for him. And well…best not to engage.)

“Lost my phone in a gutter Saturday nigh—” There was the sound of someone clearing their throat off to the side. Oh, right. Nate. Hardison huffed at him, waving away Eliot’s explanation. He could ask later anyway.

“Sorry, right, couldn’t wait a second, Nate? Whatever, course not. Nate, this is Eliot—neighbor, friend, owner of this fluff monster.” He lifted Megs up with hands under his front legs, just enough to get the point across. Megs took the chance to backbend, trying to lick at Hardison’s face again, which he only just narrowly avoided, “Eliot, this is Nate—you remember Sophie, Parker’s aunt? Nate’s her boyfriend.” There was a squeak off camera even as Nate stuttered and did what amounted to his level of flailing (namely, raising a very judgy eyebrow and avoiding direct eye contact) and Hardison bit back a smirk. Serves them right.

Eliot glanced back at the tv, pausing for all of a breath—quick enough that Hardison knew, less than a month ago, he would’ve missed it—before putting on a smile that frankly, made Hardison’s skin crawl. He knew that smile. He’d seen it enough on Sophie’s face to know when someone slipped on a quick mask—looked perfectly real, read perfectly fine, but missing something  _ right _ with the person, if you knew them. In this case…it was the eyes, Hardison realized. Eliot smiled with his eyes far more than he  _ actually  _ smiled. Right now though? They were intense, hard, carefully flitting from Nate to the background and back to Nate—and at least once, to the front door.

“Nice to meet you. Sorry for interrupting your phone call.” He rolled his shoulder in a shrug that looked way too fluid, reaching up in the same second to pull the tie out of his hair, dragging a hand through it and letting it fall (it was still damp, kinked now slightly from the tie—he’d probably stopped by his place for a shower when he got back), pretty easily hiding most of his profile from Nate when he turned to look at Hardison, holding up the grocery bag. “Dinner still good with you two?”

Hardison blinked—then nodded quickly, keeping his own smile easy. Eliot gave him an almost-nothing smile back—a real one, thankfully, eyes lighting up—and disappeared into the kitchen. Nate, when he looked back, had a look on his face like he knew  _ something  _ was off, but damned if he knew  _ what _ . And until Hardison himself figured it out, it was going to have to stay that way. Before Nate could open his mouth, Hardison gave one shake of his head, expression hard.

_ No. _

Nate eyed him for a long moment, clearly turning the whole thing over in his head, but, thankfully, just held up his hands and leaned back in his chair. He’d leave it with Hardison.

(For now. Nate never could leave anything alone.)

“Sounds like you two have plans. We’ll call back later.” Hardison felt some tension leave his posture, offering Nate a small smile.

“Alright, see ya, Nate. Sophie! I’ll make sure Parker’s around for the call next time.” Nate nodded and waved slightly, already turning to wherever Sophie was offscreen to say something before the screen went black.

Now to deal with Eliot.

If there was anything really to deal with—man could’ve just been spooked at meeting someone new out of nowhere. They’ve covered his antisocial tendencies before. Hell, he put up with Parker casing his house for two weeks before he’d approached them—and even then, he’d technically let them come to him.

So, Hardison was probably making a big fuss out of nothing. Plus, meeting Nate when he wasn’t talking to a client was always a toss-up—you either didn’t like him, or you tolerated him until he grew on you. Just because Eliot had liked them on sight, apparently, didn’t mean he’d like Nate.

Making a big fuss out of nothing.

(The firm nod he gave himself didn’t really do anything to settle his nerves. Did put him in reach of Megs’ continued attempts to get at his face though.)

But he really hadn’t liked how Eliot had moved. How  _ quickly _ he’d shifted to something hard, distant, and completely controlled—not rough around the edges, not tensed to move, just. There in the moment. It definitely reminded him that, oh, right, Eliot was ex-military, and signs were pointing to somewhat beyond your average soldier.

No point in sitting out here wondering, though.

He gently nudged Megs off his lap—then slid to the floor and shoved Megs off his lap when somehow, with no opposable thumbs to hold on with, the dog didn’t budge. He pushed himself up before Megs could invade his personal space again—he’d feed him a bit of whatever Eliot made (if it was dog-safe anyway. He had a list memorized of big ‘no’s) to apologize later.

Shuffling into the kitchen was…anticlimactic, honestly. Eliot had changed—his hair was pulled up in a tail again, possibly confirming Hardison’s note about it being to hide his face—but his button-up and jacket were tossed over a chair at the dining table (a quick look between it and the open sauce jar on the counter confirmed they had been an early cooking casualty), leaving him in his black undershirt.

(And there was that voice again about good looks for Eliot and seriously, Hardison was  _ not  _ going to engage with it.)

Hardison eyed him for a long moment, leaning in his usual spot against the counter, out of the way. 

If he hadn’t seen his reaction to Nate, he wouldn’t have any reason to suspect anything now—Eliot moved as easily as he normally did in their space, shoulders low, picking through cabinets as if he owned the place (which he might as well, for all the two of them ever did anything in it).

Something was off though, still, once Hardison got past the initial relief that cold-distant- _ wrong _ Eliot was a Nate-only thing.

“...are you limping?” ‘Limp’ was maybe an exaggeration, but he was favoring his left leg. Eliot froze—that weird stillness that set off some kind of alarm bell in the back of Hardison’s mind. But, he’d ignored it in the grocery store, he could ignore it now—especially when Eliot hissed and jolted back because, surprise, suddenly putting all of your weight on a busted limb and  _ freezing _ wasn’t a good idea. Go figure.

“So you noticed that too?” Parker asked, sliding up onto her spot on the counter, a couple feet from Eliot, like she’d been there from the start. Eliot glanced back and between them, raising an eyebrow.

“...pulled a muscle. Ain’t that hard to do, you know. I’m fine.” Parker didn’t say anything, giving him a once over before reaching over and…poking his ribs. Hardison was about to ask what she was doing when Eliot hissed again, swatting her hand away without actually making contact. She did it again, poking at the back of his shoulder, and this time Eliot just stepped clear out of her reach (if she stayed on the counter anyway. Something about her expression told Hardison she probably wouldn’t). “Stop it!” Exasperated, not pissed (not distant). That, they could deal with.

“Man, if you need to be laying down or something, you could’ve said.” Eliot shot him a look out of the corner of his eyes (not turning away from Parker, which, smart).

“I don’t. Couple bruises and a pulled hamstring ain’t enough to knock me on my ass. ‘Sides. Said dinner if I got back tonight, right?” He offered a small smile, one of the  _ right  _ ones, mostly in his eyes and just a quirk of his lips, and Hardison knew he wasn’t going to push anymore.

“...alright, alright, yeah, you did. Just don’t push yourself alright? We’d be just fine ordering some pizza or something.” He bit back a grin when Eliot’s smile turned into an offended scowl.

“Like hell you will—what did you two eat while I was gone anyway?”

“I had fortune cookies for breakfast.” Oh, right. Hardison had forgotten about that. They had both been a little out of sorts on Saturday, alright. Eliot’s outright pained look though…it took all Hardison had not to bust out laughing, especially when Eliot raised a hand to pinch between his eyes.

“Right. Of course you did. That doesn’t surprise me. It doesn’t surprise me.” He turned back to the stove, and Hardison couldn’t help but laugh at the poor man, while Parker grinned.

Hardison just had one last thing to ask, before they slid right back into their usual chatter for the night—and requisite, apparently, argument about what movie to watch.

“So. Phone in the gutter?” Eliot glanced over his shoulder for a moment, but stayed at ease—thankfully. Hardison really didn’t want to be dealing with anymore curveballs tonight.

“Yeah, shame too. Kinda liked that one. I have another, I’ll get you the number.” And that was that.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Eliot _

 

Eliot had been fine.

That hadn’t been a lie—not when he’d said it two days ago, before dinner, with Parker somehow finding every bruise of his unerringly. Not when he left that night and got home, and every muscle in his body decided to lock, tense and ready to move,  _ needing _ to.

He got like that sometimes—too much energy going around, didn’t come down right off the adrenaline, and he was out of practice (as much as he hated to admit it, but the gym he goes to a couple days a week and his set up in the basement just didn’t replace years of constant motion).

This though. This was something different, and it curled heavy and sick in his stomach.

He didn’t get hurt with Shelley—that had been an easy in and out, his phone the only casualty, and that was all Shelley’s fault anyway. No, he got hurt on the way out of the goddamn grocery store of all things.

It shouldn’t have been a  _ thing _ , looking back on it, watching sallow grey light start crawling across his floor. The two of them hadn’t clocked him first—and when they had, it had probably been because he was the only one in the parking lot that late at night. He probably could’ve body-checked them and kept going if he’d really wanted to.

But something—something in the way they settled their weight even when talking to a friendly, their arms held with just enough give at their sides to accommodate something under just too large jackets; the way they bracketed him in, shifting weight to the inside to provide some initial stop to any forward motion he’d have if he did try to shove past—set off alarm bells in his head, made him settle out loose with a practiced smile, ready to roll his mass into a punch or scramble out into a run at the first wrong move.

They’d been about to ask something after the initial “excuse me, got a second?”—he was pretty sure, anyway—before they’d paused. Eyed him up and down before sharing a look with each other, expressions going dark.

He’d dropped the bag of groceries in one hand before he could stop to think (stop to panic, because that would get him injured or dead right quick and he had  _ plans  _ dammit), lashing out with the other and catching the guy on his left in the jaw with the heel of his palm. It didn’t knock him back, but it snapped his head back—startling, shocking, whatever, it worked—long enough for Eliot to get his shoulder into the sternum of the other one, shoving hard.

One on the ground for a moment, he’d taken a cross to the ribs from the other (and that was the first bruise Parker found, later), following with it and throwing his weight back—sending them both down. Eliot had the moment to roll back up in the next second. The first one he’d dropped had been getting back on his feet, reaching under his jacket for what Eliot could probably guess was an oversized gun for the situation (he knew the type, alright?).

He’d feel bad about the knee he brought up into the man’s face with a sharp crack that resounded through the parking lot later—he’s pretty sure that’s when he pulled his hamstring but hell if he knew—but it dropped him like a rock so, at the time, he hadn’t much cared.

The second guy caught an elbow to the jaw, twisting around to escape most of the impact and ending up behind Eliot long enough to land a sharp jab up under his shoulder (and there was the second bruise). Eliot's kick backwards was probably a bit cheap, landing below the belt and earning him a pained wheeze, but it gave him the moment he needed to swing around with a hook to the temple that had him dropping just as heavily as his friend.

Checking to make sure no one from the grocery store had come out—if any noise had made it that far in the first place—he found the coast clear, making the snap decision to haul the two of them into the bed of his truck.

This late, there wasn’t any traffic between here and the hospital about twenty minutes up the highway if state patrol wasn’t out. So, there, dump them in front of the emergency room—and since they hadn’t stirred during the ride, he could be pretty sure they wouldn’t have much of a memory as to how the hell they got there—and back on the highway in less than two minutes.

Another drop by the grocery store, sheepish smile making his face hurt when the cashier called him out—Megs took the fall for that, supposedly having jumped him when he got back, sending groceries flying in his yard—before he’d sped home.

Megs did indeed jump him when he went to pick him up from the McElroys—they’d watched Megs while he was away on most of his jobs since he’d gotten the dog—but no groceries were lost thankfully.

A shower and he’d been feeling somewhat settled in his skin again. Enough to make it through dinner with Parker and Hardison at least—enough that telling them he was fine hadn’t been a lie.

It wasn’t until he’d gotten back home. Gotten into bed. Actually played through what had happened—over and over and over—that he realized he’d made it a  _ thing _ . He could’ve played it any number of different ways. He didn’t  _ know  _ them. Which meant they likely hadn’t recognized him so much as picked out…well, probably what he’d picked out about them. The look they’d shared could’ve been anything though, even if everything about them had set off so many different alarms in his head.

So did the fucking oven timer if he wasn’t paying attention. So did Megs some mornings, before he fully snapped awake. So did Shelley—in a low-key way, buzzing around the back of his mind, that he’d once been able to shove aside, but now, since he only saw him every couple of months…

Point was. Eliot was paranoid, on edge, and as likely to snap as a goddamn firecracker on a given day. He could own up to that.

But  _ something  _ had been wrong.

Breathe.

(Likely) large caliber handguns—regardless,  _ some  _ kind of handgun—where, around here, hunting rifles were about all people carried; picking out the loner in a dark parking lot; blockading friendlies; and again, he’d gotten enough of a read on them that he  _ knew _ they ran in similar circles he used to.

His gut had told him something was wrong and he’d reacted.

Breathe.

It wasn’t ideal. He might’ve overreacted. But it was against men who’d clearly been trained, who knew the risks of the job ( _ if he was right, please let him be right _ ), had been willing to pull a gun on him when he clearly had nothing on him.

Something had been wrong. He’d reacted.

It was done now. And with how hard those two went down, he wouldn’t be surprised if their memories for the last twenty-four hours were scrambled.

So even if that look had meant that they’d recognized him, they wouldn’t remember now.

Breathe.

He was fine.

He  _ would be  _ fine.

The alarm blared out, a sharp crack across the too quiet room, muffled a moment later by a pillow tossed at it. Megs grumbled at him for the jostle but stayed perched on his leg.

Okay.

He shot off a text to Hardison and Parker, cancelling coffee that morning with a quick apology. If the alarm clock that went off every single morning was making him that high strung—it hadn’t startled him, thankfully, but it had set his teeth on edge, and that was possibly just as bad—he didn’t need to be around them.

They didn’t need that.

Some mornings, sure, he could push through bad nights, sit with them, let their chatter wash over his nerves, smooth out the edges here and there. Sometimes it worked better than others—and for a wonder, they got when it didn’t and let him be. 

But trying that right now—when he  _ knew  _ he wasn’t going to settle anytime soon, when he had this much energy buzzing under his skin, when something scraped at the back of his throat and he couldn’t tell if it was bile or his heart in his throat—wouldn’t be fair to him or them.

He couldn’t use them as a distraction too often—shouldn’t be doing it at all, but it was a little late for that—and they didn’t need a tense morning trying to talk him down. Simple as that.

Shaking his head, he sent off another text before tossing his phone back on his pillow. It’d be awhile before he got a response to that one and he needed to get up—move, run, something. Megs whined at him when he tried to move, grumbling and trying to wriggle closer, up until Eliot just scooped him up and took him with him as he headed out to the kitchen.

His leg still twinged here and there, but it wasn’t anything serious, and it definitely wasn’t enough to keep him off his feet. Setting Megs down by his food bowl—which was given cursory attention at best before the dog was glued to his hip again—he set a pot of coffee brewing and headed down to the basement, practice being about the only thing keeping him from tripping over the mutt that stayed underfoot.

The basement was the only other room in the house that Eliot had finished within the first six months of getting the place—if one wanted to call exposed ceilings and cement walls and floors ‘finished’. But that was fine. It didn’t need to be pretty to work. Most of the floor was covered in thin matting, the walls likewise up to about a foot over his height, except the one taken up by mirrors. One corner had a heavy bag, a treadmill he almost never used in the other (Megs liked it though). Weights and a bench took up the wall across from the mirrors.

Overall, it was sparse, and if he really wanted to move, to spar, to go until something gave, he’d have to get in his car and head down the highway. But, this was his space—as much as the kitchen was—and right now it was just what he needed.

The beat-up speakers that lived by the mirrors were playing something more bass than music, loud enough to focus on but not enough to hurt Megs’ ears, who was curled up in the over-sized dog-bed by the stairs. Occasionally he’d wander upstairs, coming back down to nose around Eliot before returning to his bed. He wasn’t happy, and Eliot got that, but there wasn’t much he could really do about it, so he ignored him.

Breathe. Move. Breathe. React. Breathe.

He was fine. They hadn’t recognized him—wouldn’t. They hadn’t been there for him in the first place. So many people moved through town, they could’ve been after anyone. But, not him. He’d reacted, and it was done.

Breathe. Stretch. Breathe.

He’d gotten hurt because he’d fallen out of practice more than he liked to admit. That was supposed to be a  _ good  _ thing. Meant he was moving on. Settling in. Normal people weren’t ready for a fight every day. Weren’t expecting one. Normal people didn’t take three years to half finish a renovation either, but he was getting there.

Breathe. Strike.

Another job. He’d already asked Shelley if he had anything. Just to burn off the excess energy.

He’d felt good, on the way home, before the grocery store. Calmer. Settled. Ready to finish  _ something _ around the house—didn’t matter what. Maybe finally finish the walls in the living room. But then the fight had hyped him up again—had ruined whatever high he’d been on. A quick turnaround, and he could catch it again. Settle back down for a little while.

Breathe.

This would turn out just fine.

* * *

The next time he stopped long enough to take a full breath, burnt light was shining through the narrow windows lining the top of the walls.

The next, the night outside was thick and heavy, and he knew without looking that it was probably well after midnight.

Hauling himself upstairs, he dumped out the pot of coffee that had gone untouched—didn’t think too hard about it—and grabbed…something from the fridge to reheat. He couldn’t taste much of it, but he didn’t think too hard about that either. By the time he’d fed Megs—even though he’d barely touched his food all day—everything filtering in was hazy and heavy and he felt loose and tired.

A quick shower and he was tumbling back into bed, exhausted and worked thin, mind finally having snapped to quiet sometime between kitchen and now. It should probably bother him that he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, but the worry was as hazy as everything else at the moment, and he, frankly, couldn’t be bothered.

* * *

He got an hour and a half of sleep that night before he was staring at the wall, tense, sweating, teeth clenched hard around an imaginary guard. He thought anyway. Could’ve been against a scream for all he could remember of the dream.

Shelley had texted him back at some point—there was something he could use his help with this coming Friday.

He managed to keep himself in bed another two hours before he gave up and headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, slipping downstairs right after.

There may have been a knock at the door at some point, but he couldn’t be sure—the bass coming out of the speakers a little louder today, a little faster. Megs had looked up the stairs at one point, but had stayed in the bed, so he hadn’t payed much attention.

* * *

His head barely touched the pillows that night before he was sitting up straight, some quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to relax out of it slowly before he hurt something (again). He ended up slumped over like someone had cut his strings, Megs’ whining and nosing gently at his face, and pointedly ignoring his weak attempts to shove him away.

Breathe.

Kitchen. Coffee pot. Downstairs.

* * *

This isn’t the longest Eliot’s gone without a decent night’s sleep—not by a longshot.

So the fact that it takes him a couple moments to pick out the footsteps up above from the bass over his speakers—and when had they gotten that loud anyway?—was...mildly worrying.

(His heart was in his throat again, if he was being honest. But panicking wasn’t going to help.)

Breathe. React. Process later.

He left the speakers on, a hand signal to Megs—one of the only ones he’d managed to drill into the dog’s head that he followed perfectly every time ( _ stay _ )—before he made his way silently up the stairs.

“—is is a bad idea! Seriously, we promised no breaking and entering remember?” It’s hissed, quiet, coming from the kitchen. There was a softer response—he couldn’t make out words, but he ciould hear a distinctly unimpressed tone. When the actual voice filtered in along with what was said, Eliot kind of just stopped on the stairs for a moment, leaning over to press his forehead to the wall and breathing out sharply through his nose.

He slipped back downstairs to flip off the speakers before flicking a ‘go’ at Megs, who was up the stairs in a flash, a sudden squawk and heavy thump upstairs telling him all he needed to know. He didn’t follow immediately, letting himself breathe and wind down a bit so he wouldn’t end up snapping too hard one direction or another.

It took a good five minutes before he felt like something wouldn’t crack—what that something is, he had no idea—and he headed back up the stairs, unwrapping his hands as he went (frazzled and hazy he may be, but he had little interest in causing another boxer’s fracture because he couldn’t be bothered to wrap his damned hands, alright?).

Hardison was still on the floor with Megs in his lap, Parker perched on the bar, her feet firmly planted in the chair in front of her. Neither looked all that surprised when he does finally come up, but at least Hardison looked sheepish.

“So. There’s a good explanation for this,” Hardison started, only to be cut off by Megs’ shoving his snout into his face. Eliot’s pretty sure he didn’t smirk at that, but it was a damn near thing.

(And no, not thinking about how just seeing the two of them could make him smile in about five seconds flat. Not thinking about that at all. Right now.)

Not quite trusting his voice, he waves a ‘go on,’ slipping around them and into the kitchen—ignoring the coffee pot completely, though whether that’s to avoid drawing attention to it or not, even he couldn’t say, and going instead for a kettle to get started boiling. He doesn’t really  _ want  _ anything, but it’s something to focus on.

He could  _ feel  _ Parker’s eyes on him and for the first time, he found it unnerving as all hell. Sure, he’d known she could be intense when she wanted to be—had seen it that first day, and she hadn’t exactly tried to hide it since then—but this was something else.

“...you got something to say, Parker, say it.” He can’t quite bite back a wince at how rough his voice sounds, but at this point, there’s not a whole lot he can do about it. She’s quiet for a long couple of moments, but Eliot can’t bring himself to push. Either she’s working through what she wants to say, or she’s just going to stay quiet—at which point, he’s pretty sure Hardison would cover for her anyway.

“Are you mad?” 

He paused, blinking down at the stovetop for a second before glancing back. It wasn’t the question he was expecting—of the many that had run through his brain in those quiet minutes, that hadn’t come up once. So, he twisted around to lean back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest, and gave her question some thought.

Was he? He probably should be. For all that they were friendly—for all that his mornings revolved around them, for all that he was starting to be able to read them like the back of his hand, for all that they could dredge a smile out of him on the heaviest of mornings…

Wait.

Aw, fuck.

No, he wasn’t mad. He didn’t know what that said about his normally paranoid ass, and maybe he was just too wrung out right now for that coherent of an emotion and it’d come back to bite him later but…both of them were watching him with big, worried eyes—looking at him like he was about to shatter, and normally he  _ hated  _ looks like that. But they were both also leaning his direction—ready to move closer, he realized with a start, if they got a green light.

He scrubbed a hand roughly down his face because that was something he was going to have to look at later, and the very idea made his already exhausted mind stumble a bit. But. Later.

“No, Parker, I’m not mad. Should be, though. And you owe me an explanation.” It’s sharper than he means it to be, but they don’t seem to mind, Parker losing the straight-edge to her pose, and Hardison’s grip on Megs loosening just a bit.

“Your basement light’s been on until after midnight since Sunday—Hardison said that could be normal though—and you cancelled on coffee and then went silent—which you have every right to do, it’s your time or whatever and I know we can be a lot—but you didn’t answer the door yesterday or today and we were worried, and now actually seeing you, you look like hell, Eliot, and you said you were fine on Sunday, and I don’t think you were lying then, but you’re definitely not fine now.” It’s said all in one breath, like she’s been practicing and just waiting for the chance to spill, and it takes Eliot a moment to actually parse through what she’s said.

“...and, well, we were worried, and wanted to see if you were okay. And if you weren’t, if there’s anything we could, you know, do?” Hardison pipes up after the silence drags on a little too long. “And then you didn’t answer the door so…yeah.”

Eliot can’t help the small snort of a laugh, creaked and rough, but real (and god does that feel good). Because honestly? It’s just their level of weird logic to make sense.

“And we’re definitely coming back to that later.” Eliot grumbled. Parker looked sheepish this time too, though not by much. He eyed them both for a long moment, debating where to go from here—by rights he should toss them out. They’d seen him, seen that he was still alive. He could salvage this in a couple days and things could go back to normal.

But, now that they were in his space again—bright and energetic despite visibly trying to tamp down on their nervous energy (appreciated, as bad as they were at it; if Hardison pet Megs any harder, his poor dog was going to lose some fur. Not that the mutt seemed to notice)—he didn’t…really  _ want _ them to go. It wasn’t that his head was finally quiet—no, he’d worked that out sometime yesterday. Now, now, it was just an excess of energy that buzzed wrong across his skin, made it hard to sit still, relax,  _ sleep _ , and vague shadows of nightmares that were too insubstantial to drag completely into the light when he did try to sleep, but that scraped at the edges of his mind, just enough to keep him unsettled and too-alert.

It was exhausting, is what it was. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before—nothing he knew wouldn’t pass. But goddamn, these ten minutes in the kitchen with his weirdo neighbors cleared his head more than two days working himself thin just to get a word in edgewise in his own mind.

“...you don’t lie, we won’t ask why. That fair?” Eliot blinked at the soft question, shaking his head slightly and refocusing on Hardison—he’d noticed him moving a moment ago, pushing himself to his feet, but since he hadn’t moved closer, it had gotten pushed to the back of his awareness. He didn’t much like what that question could open up, but he rolled a shoulder in some approximation of a nod anyway.

“Are you okay?” Well, at least he went for straight-forward.

The minute shake of his head was about all Eliot could manage before he was crouching down to bury his hands in Megs’ fur—apparently if he couldn’t use Hardison as a chair, he was perfectly fine to come hang out by Eliot again.

“Okay. Do you want us to leave you alone?” There was a sound of protest from Parker, but there must have been a look or something between them that he didn’t see, focused as he was on Megs, because she didn’t actually say anything.

Another shake of his head. He could do this, if they didn’t expect much talking.

“...you ever end up watching that movie I gave you?” Eliot blinked, glancing back over. It took him a second to place what the hell Hardison was talking about—oh, right, Hardison had gotten offended that he hadn’t seen some sci-fi classic or whatever and had basically shoved it into his hands after dinner a week ago, telling him that he needed to watch it before he was allowed back in their house (even though they both knew that threat held absolutely no water). Confused, he shook his head (and that was getting annoying—he felt like a damn bobble head, too big head and all).

“You wanna grab it and relocate? We can make some popcorn, settle in for a bit while we work on your truly insulting lack of sci-fi appreciation.” 

He’d like to say he thought about it a bit—like he had when he’d first cancelled on them on Monday.

But he doesn’t.

“Give me fifteen to shower and change?” The smiles they give him in response do more to settle his nerves than anything else has in the past three days.

* * *

 

_ Hardison _

 

Hardison didn’t really know what to expect when he answered the soft knock at the door. It had been a good twenty-five minutes and, yeah, it was only ten extra minutes, but both him and Parker had started to get nervous. But, Eliot was here, and that was all that really mattered.

He still looked haggard and beat, shoulders slumped low and curled in on himself, hands shoved in the pockets of an oversized hoodie, damp, curling hair only just pulled back into a bun that was barely holding on—but, he’d gotten some color back to him too, and his eyes were focused and he was  _ here _ , so Hardison would take what he could get.

(And maybe this wasn’t their place, and maybe they were pushing the ‘friend’ boundary too far, but he hadn’t yelled at them to stop despite the wonderful decision to  _ break into his house _ , so he figured they were all a little weird and some boundaries could be pushed just a bit.)

There wasn’t much to say as they settled in to watch Stargate—he was about 50% certain Eliot was bullshitting him about having never seen it just to get a reaction out of him, but either way, he was seeing it tonight and that’s all that mattered. Parker got two massive bowls of popcorn that would be gone in about half an hour, Hardison set up the dvd, and Eliot…

Well, Eliot ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor, back pressed to the couch, Megs flopped across his lap. Hardison shared a look with Parker before shrugging. If that’s what it took to get him to relax, then so be it.

It did lead to an interesting couple of moments trying to figure out where they could sit that wouldn’t make it obvious they were trying to give him space without avoiding him though—up until he growled out “Just sit your asses down already.” Hardison had snorted and lightly shoved his shoulder before dropping down on one side of him, Parker on the other. There was a tense few seconds before Eliot slumped back like his strings had been cut, grumbling all the while but making absolutely no effort to move them away.

By the end of the first movie—when there was absolutely no discussion about whether or not to start a second one, they just did—Eliot had his head leaned on Parker’s knee, her fingers idly combing through his hair in a motion Hardison didn’t think either of them was consciously aware of.

They looked… well, they looked good together, Parker’s nervous energy evened out, the tight lines around Eliot’s eyes and mouth starting to smoothe out as he melted into the touch.

Huh. 

Oh.

_ Oh _ .

...something to look at again later.

The end of the second movie had both of them strong-arming a hardly-resisting Eliot into just sleeping on the couch, since he’d spent the last half of the second movie jerking himself awake every couple of minutes. There was grumbling and what Hardison was pretty sure were muttered threats, but no actual “no,” so he was bundled up on the couch with a blanket and a pillow, and Megs was given his own blanket nest on the floor by the couch. Eliot was out like a light within five minutes.

(Hardison’s pretty sure both he and Parker slept easier that night than they had since Sunday, but he could really only speak for himself.)

* * *

That next morning, they didn’t talk about how Eliot smiled as he made breakfast. How his voice had lost it’s scraped edge. How he was still visibly exhausted but how some weight had clearly lifted from his shoulders.

And they definitely didn’t talk about how he muttered that he’d be gone, later that week—but with a promise to keep them in the loop. And to come back okay.

They didn’t like it, but he’d sounded… _ hopeful _ about everything, and Hardison couldn’t think of a reason to try to stop him. So, they wished him luck, told him they’d see him on Sunday—Monday if he got in too late. Sure, they could watch Megs. It would be fine. They’d see him soon.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Hardison _

 

Eliot’d stopped by that morning (if it could be called that, what with the sun still being hours from rising) to drop off Megs, apologized sheepishly again, promised to be back by Sunday if he could. And then he was gone.

And Hardison knew he shouldn't. But he was curious, things weren’t adding up, and he was  _ worried _ .

So. The facial recognition search was started up again - he’d stopped it after nothing had pinged and he couldn't justify still looking beyond general paranoia a couple weeks back (and it had felt kind of skeevy, that he was looking for the guy while sitting in his kitchen, eating his food, you know?). And, with a phone number in hand, he tracked Eliot’s phone. Through DIA - he couldn’t connect a ticket to him which told him all he needed to know about what IDs the man was using. Over into Italy. And another jump over to somewhere in eastern Europe, his phone switching off before he landed.

And if that wasn’t sketchy as fuck, Hardison would turn in his hacker credentials because  _ seriously _ .

He didn't like it, but he started digging—actually intent this time.

It took a couple hours—half because he was still be a little reticent about all of it, and half because whoever cleaned up after Eliot? They weren't fucking around.

He found one police report, from Portland, dated to about six years ago. The mugshot wasn’t pretty—Eliot’s face definitely lost a fight with some asphalt—but it was him, about fifty pounds lighter and missing his shoulder length hair. And wonder upon wonders, it had his last name.

Eliot Spencer.

And that was all he needed to find the rest.

Birth certificate. High school diploma. Blacked out army files. Honorable discharge. A good five year gap of absolutely nothing. Then the arrest warrants, running the gamut from suspected murder, manslaughter, to robbery and fraud (which, that gave Hardison pause. He may not be an expert, but he was pretty sure people were supposed to get  _ worse  _ as time went on, not… well, robbery and fraud weren’t  _ better _ , but they didn’t tend to leave a bloodtrail). 

He found bounties out on the man in three different countries, and more… polite warrants in another five.

Everything that he found stateside though had been locked down tight, as of four years ago. Down to original scans only—archived files, not in circulation. Not completely removed, but definitely harder to find. And Hardison was pretty sure those were just what was left over rather than the lot of them.

Eliot Spencer had done his best to disappear, and had damn near succeeded as much as anyone without access to people with skills like Hardison’s could. He had to have friends still in high places, or used to, to be able to get that kind of closure on open cases.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the screens, trying to line up the man hinted at inbetween the blacked out pages, the gaps, and the police reports with the one that had spent yesterday night falling apart on his floor. With the man that invited them into his home, despite very clearly knowing they were lying out their asses.

Parker appeared at his side at some point—he’d felt her hand on his shoulder and had easily moved, shifting to the side to allow her space to lean in and get a look at the screens as well.

“...we’re going to have to tell him we saw this, aren’t we?” Parker asked, softly, who knows how long later. She didn’t sound… worried. More pensive. Which, oddly enough, set Hardison at ease. Megs promptly deciding to shove his head in Hardison’s lap at that moment probably helped too.

“Probably.” Definitely. “But, what’re we going to be telling him with it?” he asked, leaning back in his chair to look directly at her, watching as fast eyes flitted from report to report, between the handful of mugshots he’d found, from the blacked out file to the warrants, brain probably going a mile a minute as she worked this over at angles he couldn’t quite follow.

He wasn’t going to be putting the entirety of this decision on her of course, but she definitely needed to figure out how she felt about it on her own. And  _ then  _ they could figure out what they were going to do, together. Hardison himself?

...well, outside of the initial shock—which was still working its way through his system, probably would for a couple days now, if only because his oversized brain was busy trying to fill in the gaps he’d found with scraps of information and his imagination had a way of getting ahead of itself—this… _ probably  _ wasn’t actually that big of a deal?

Okay. Breathe for a moment.

He pushed himself away from the computers, letting Parker take his spot, and headed into the kitchen, Megs trotting along at his feet.

He grabbed a soda from the fridge, side-eyeing the saran-wrapped leftovers Eliot had left in the fridge for them before deciding against it for now. A little too weird.

Okay. So, the situation—at its simplest—was that their neighbor was terrifying, on paper. Dangerous. And yet, something happened four years ago, and he started getting out, successfully vanishing three years ago. How  _ out  _ he actually was was probably up for debate, depending what he was currently doing in somewhere in Europe. So, semi-retired at least.

It would be hypocritical to the extreme for Hardison or Parker to judge on any of his later warrants. They were criminals, they wore that like a badge—not of honor, not necessarily. No  _ that _ badge went to their skills, not really the application—but definitely one that formed a good amount of their identity. So, that part didn’t change anything.

And the red warrants were a good five to six years old. Not a huge span of time, but enough to avoid jumping to conclusions. But, even that’d be hypocritical as hell—they worked with Quinn and Dayan just fine, and they had rap sheets just as long as Eliot did.

As for the bounties? Again, hypocritical as hell—he’s pretty sure Iceland was still pissed at him, though he hadn’t checked in awhile. (Seriously, they needed to let that go already.) 

This changed nothing for him, he realized, feeling something unclench in his chest. It wasn’t even  _ relief _ , it was just bone deep contentment. This changed absolutely nothing—except.  _ Except. _

It would only be fair at this point, right? To tell him they knew—and to give something back.

They wouldn’t have to lie anymore. Sure, maybe keep quiet about Moreau and the Italian explicitly—if only because that’s their mess, not his. He’s clearly tried to get  _ out  _ of the kind of life they live—the kind of lives Quinn and Dayan live.

Satisfied, and slightly giddy, he popped the leftovers in the microwave (which, Eliot would definitely growl at him for—“I left you oven instructions Hardison! It’s not that hard!”—but whatever), heading back over to Parker with two bowls a couple minutes later.

Parker glances at the bowl he offers, then up at him, tilting her head.

“He’s like Quinn. Like us,” she offers after a breath, a slow smile showing a moment later, clearly coming to a similar conclusion as he did. Hardison grins, hitching his hip up on the desk.

“Little rougher, sure, but yeah.”

“No more lying?” Hardison nods in response, and she beams. Only for her smile to fall not a second later, the switch happening so fast Hardison has to blink a couple times to make sure it wasn’t a trick. “He wanted this stuff hidden, right?”

...ah, well. Okay, that might be a problem.

“One problem at a time, mama. We’ll tell him, see how he reacts, and go from there, yeah?” And there’s her smile again, right before she digs into the leftover pasta. Hardison couldn’t quite muster up the same enthusiasm, the giddiness in his chest having dissipated a bit at the realization that this was probably somewhere along the lines of their ‘breaking and entering’ stunt, only likely a lot worse.

But. This would work out. He just had to wait and see.

(And, you know, keep an eye on the damn dog, who took his two seconds of spaciness there as an opportunity to upend his bowl out of his hands and onto the floor. The fact that the bowl didn’t shatter is a relief at least.)

* * *

True to his word, Eliot remembered how to use his phone, sending them a text Saturday night—just an update confirming Sunday if his flight didn’t get delayed, and another Sunday morning asking if dinner was still a go (of course it was). Hardison maybe felt bad, for a couple minutes, about continuing to track his phone the second it turned back on. But it passed quickly, and, come Sunday evening, they kept an eye on it the entire way back to DIA. Only when he started moving their way did Hardison turn it off.

They hadn’t really…decided how they were going to broach everything with Eliot. They both knew they had to, as quickly as possible—they’d, briefly, talked about waiting until he tried to tell them himself, if he ever would, before both realizing that, one, Eliot would probably eat his own tongue before opening up like that, and two, the idea of holding back something that big made them both just a little ill. For himself, he was hesitant to set anything in stone until they saw what mood Eliot was in when he got back. The last thing they wanted was another spiral. Hardison could do without seeing that ever again, thanks.

(Logically, he knows, staying involved with Eliot in any way, let alone—hopefully—getting closer with him meant they probably  _ would  _ see it again, ‘cause shit like that didn’t just go away, but still. Minimizing the possibility would be nice.)

(He doesn’t really stop to think about  _ why  _ both of them had unanimously decided that getting closer to Eliot was something they wanted, no question. Or, if he does, no one can prove it.)

So. Wait to see how Eliot was when he got back and go from there. Should be easy. Where ‘easy’ meant some natural segue came up or one of them blurted it out out of nowhere. Hardison was betting on the latter, if only because he knew himself, and he knew Parker.

He tried to put it out of his mind—it was going to happen, one way or another, and worrying about it wasn’t going to do them any good. And besides, Megs could obviously sense his two temporary babysitters were nervous about something, padding between the two of them, whining and nudging at hands and legs, and generally just trying to figure out where the anxious energy was coming from, which just made Hardison feel bad.

Most of the afternoon from there was spent playing with Megs and pretending he didn’t notice Parker fidgeting with her rigs in the rafters, fingers flying, knotting and unknotting rope and buckles, and then, later, pretending he didn’t hear her slip out to get some space. Sometimes, sometimes he could ask her down, distract her from her own thoughts and give her something to focus on until she calmed down. Sometimes he couldn’t and she would do better working through things by herself.

There’s a knock at the door around six, and, given that he’s pretty sure Megs wouldn’t near brain himself on the door trying to get to anyone else, Hardison just calls out from his spot on the couch (Megs had worn him out, alright), “Door’s open, E!” He can practically  _ hear  _ the eyeroll that no doubt earned him, but the door opens and Eliot shuffles in, carrying another bag of groceries (almost like he doesn’t trust them to actually go by themselves. Which, fair), having to gently shove Megs away to actually be able to get in.

Hardison takes a moment to eye the other man as he crouches down to actually say hi to Megs. He still looks tired, but it’s not the all encompassing  _ thing  _ it was when he left. He’s not favoring any muscle, that Hardison can tell anyway, and the small smile he has at Megs’ overdramatic greeting is genuine, soft, and easy.

He feels  _ himself  _ ease out of a tense he hadn’t even known he’d been in, feeling his own smile get a little easier. All good signs. They could do this. Shoving himself up, he slipped over to help save the groceries from Megs’ rolling around. “How was your trip?” Not ‘what were you doing?’ so, so far so good on the not blurting it out thing.

“Fine, just had to help a friend with somethi—” Eliot starts, glancing up from the ground before something makes him pause. Hardison’s like, 90% certain there’s nothing on his face, except there has to be  _ something  _ because Eliot’s expression is wary, worried (and not at all shuttered like it had been with Nate, and Hardison clings to that fact). “...something happen?” And then panic, “Where’s Parker?”

Shit, shit, shit. Okay, it’s fine, whatever, Hardison can work with this.

“What? No, no, Eliot, everything’s fine. Parker’s fine—outside I think.” That stops the immediate panic at least, but the pinch doesn’t leave Eliot’s eyes, and now he’s eyeing Hardison up and down, trying to figure out whatever it is he saw (and seriously, what the hell gave it away? ...if this goes well, Hardison is going to have to ask).

Where the hell was Parker, she really should be here for this, and oh, Eliot was getting up and—

“Okay, so, this is kind of another breaking and entering thing, and you weren’t mad about that—which, you probably should’ve been, like, really, who doesn’t get mad at a stunt like that—but we’re kind of hoping you don’t get mad about this one too, and Parker should be here but I don’t know where she is besides the general ‘outside’—you know how she can vanish—but uh…” he flounders at that last bit because the only thing coming to mind is ‘we found your rap sheet for the last decade because we’re nosy and hey, don’t worry about it, we’re criminals too,’ and he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t fly, not by a long shot.

Eliot’s still just…  _ looking  _ at him, arms crossed defensively over his chest, his shoulders pulled in, in a way Hardison’s pretty sure he doesn’t notice. It makes Eliot smaller—less of a target, he realizes, a slightly sick feeling swooping out the bottom of his stomach. Ah, hell.

He takes a deep breath. Blurting it out is going to have to do.

“...look. Let’s start things this way.” He holds out his hand, “Hi, I’m Alec Hardison. I’m wanted by the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, insert your choice of alphabet agency here, and Interpol. And possibly Iceland. They’re probably still mad about the whole…hacking the Bank of Iceland thing.” Well, Eliot’s not running at least. But he is looking at Hardison like he just grew another head.

Parker popping up besides them from… _ somewhere _ makes both of them jump, just slightly, before she’s sticking her hand out in a mirror of Hardison’s. “I’m Parker. I’m a thief, and wanted in…is it eight or nine different countries?”

“Nine,” Hardison offers, after his heart settles back down from the start. She turns back to Eliot with a stiff, obviously uncomfortable smile—trying to be comforting, and in any other situation Hardison would find it endearing as hell.

Eliot is still kind of just… blinking between them. But he’s not shuttered—he’s not switching to that blank wall that had Hardison had seen with Nate. Instead he just looks…confused.

“...we were curious, and things weren’t adding up, and Hardison found your history and we know we shouldn’t have looked, but then we figured out you were like us, and we didn’t want to lie anymore, and we’re sorry, but also kind of not really? Because you’re our friend and now we know and you can know us too,” Parker says before Hardison can figure out how to salvage anything. And, well. It’s blunt and (sort of) to the point, so it works.

Eliot blanches a bit, after taking a moment to sift through all of that. But, he doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t yell. So, good start.

The silence drags on, though, and Hardison can’t really drudge up enough confidence to let it lie once it starts getting heavy and the air between them starts feeling brittle enough to snap. “Eliot, we kind of…really need you to say something.”

“...what the fuck’re you doing here then?” Its sharp, snapping quick between them, and Hardison can’t help but flinch, but he gets it, he does.

“Look, we work with a team—we can tell you more about it later?” Eliot nods, just that tiniest bit, when Hardison pauses, and that’s another thing to cling to, that there  _ will be  _ a later, “And we kinda…pissed off some people with our last job. So, me and Parker are laying low here, while our partners are out trying to figure out what’s going on. And we are too—from here, but there’s not a lot we can do right now, so it’s been a lot of…ready, set, wait.”

Eliot’s frame loses its ready-to-snap posture—he doesn’t  _ relax _ , but he doesn’t look like he’s about to shatter—at that. He’s still quiet for a long moment though, drawing in a breath that hurts Hardison to hear, but exhaling a much easier one.

“...you’re not going to leave, right?” Parker asks, and Hardison flinches just barely, because, if he’s honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted to ask that question, though it had been on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t really want to hear Eliot say ‘yes.’

Instead though, he shakes his head, sharp, once. “No, Parker. I’m not…I’m not gonna leave.” A pause, drawing in another painful sounding breath. “But. New ground rules, if we’re really going to do this.” Hardison nearly gives himself whiplash nodding his head so quick, while Parker leans in next to him, eyes big and bright and hopeful. “...no more looking. You wanna know, I’ll...tell you. Some of it, anyway.” Completely fair, and if it felt like a gift, Hardison knows damn well it is one. There’s another quiet moment, like he’s picking through what to say next. “...there any way to stop you from breaking into my house now that you know you can?” Well, not what he expected.

“Yes.” Hardison answers immediately, because if Eliot asked, Hardison knew damn well they wouldn’t do it again.

“No.” Parker says, just a beat behind him, and he can’t help the incredulous look he shoots her. She just shrugs. “I mean, if you said not to, then yeah. But that didn’t sound like you were going to say no.”

There’s a shine of humor in Eliot’s eyes though, and Hardison can’t help the giddy smile he can feel on his own face. “Just…keep it reasonable, alright?”

And just like that, everything seems okay with them.

Hardison knows, just knows, there’s going to be conversations later, more ground rules, more feeling out where everything stands between them now. But Eliot reaches out to take the grocery bag from him—which he’d completely forgot he was holding, whoops—and heads for their kitchen, and Hardison can’t help but feel like they’ve gotten through the worst of it just fine.


	8. Chapter 8

_ Parker _

 

The change after that—after everything came out in a cascade that they definitely should’ve planned better, but that had worked out in the end—was quick and Parker knew it should probably bug her just  _ how  _ quick it was (it definitely bugged Hardison for a little bit before he literally threw his hands up and gave up), but honestly? It worked. Why argue with it.

Morning coffee and breakfast was back to normal—if now a daily thing, instead of coffee being the only sure thing—and more often than not, Eliot would end up at their house later in the afternoon. She didn’t think he was thinking too hard about it, since he almost never came with a plan. But, their door was open, and, in the three weeks after Everything Came Out, he’d started just letting himself in if the door was unlocked. Which Parker figured was fair, since she let herself into his house some mornings, before coffee.

He’d startled pretty badly that first time, blinking at her with big owl eyes, before turning a halfhearted, at best, glare down at Megs, muttering something about what a  _ fantastic  _ guard dog he was, while Megs just wagged his tail, before turning back to Parker and asking how she wanted her coffee.

(Two weeks ago, he’d paused, when he’d seen her one morning, perched on his counter. She’d been afraid for a moment, that he’d ask that she stop—and she would, if he wanted her to—but he just asked that she stick to the living room and kitchen, and maybe the basement if she really wanted to. Easy, because she got it. People had spaces that were theirs, and, if they asked, and they weren’t a mark, you respected that.)

So, afternoons were spent at their house. Sometimes Eliot dragged them to the grocery store, grumbling the whole way—but not once following through on the threat to just leave them in the car. Once, Parker went with him to the farmer’s market down the highway, which had been weird, but fun, especially since they went before there were too many people. He didn’t let her steal anything (and maybe she shouldn’t have told him she was a thief, because he was better at watching her hands than anyone else she’d met), but he did buy whatever she thought looked interesting, and put it all in one dinner that night, so it seemed like a fair trade off.

Sometimes Eliot wouldn’t show up until that evening, since dinner had become a daily  _ thing _ , like breakfast. Not that he  _ cooked  _ dinner every night—instead, he grumbled and growled but let them order take out anyway, insisting he help pay at the very least, each and every time. They hadn’t told him yet that he was officially paying for the tips, but hey, it didn’t hurt anyone either way.

They didn’t even really  _ do  _ anything most days. Some days, he’d sit and listen to Hardison rant about whatever was going on on his computers—neither Eliot nor her mentioning that, as time went on, Hardison had more to say about his games and research than he did the results of his search. They still hadn’t told Eliot  _ who  _ was after them—not his fight, Hardison had said, and she’d agreed. But he knew the basics: highly trained, highly pissed off, and coming at them from so many different angles it made their heads spin if they thought too hard about it. Parker knew it was because he was having to take longer and longer breaks as things kept taking longer and longer to work out, just so he wouldn’t get discouraged or frustrated.

She didn’t know what Eliot thought, but she’s pretty sure he got it too. Either that or he just really liked riling Hardison up with questions that would send him into second and third rants.

Other days, he helped her with her more complicated rig set ups that she wanted to try. And after a bit of coaxing, he started showing her how to throw a punch—and by ‘coaxing’ she meant, she’d been wide awake one night and had seen his basement lights on, and one thing led to another, and she’d broken in again and gone downstairs, where he’d been working the heavy bag over in the corner and…well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Still did actually. She should probably see if he wanted to show Hardison a thing or two at some point.

Still other days, he brought over a book and simply sat on their couch while Hardison worked and Parker played with Megs, or ran off to explore the town (he let her take Megs with her when she went, if she wanted to. All she had to do was promise to keep him on a leash). She’d get back those days, and he’d be in the kitchen, the house warm and close, smelling like something new, with soft chattering from both of the boys. At one point, she walked in on Eliot talking about fighting someone with a nerf sword in Damascus, and she’d had to demand he tell the whole story over so she could hear. He’d started doing that too—dropping little stories, here and there, opening up more and more about his past, and she knew Hardison was hoarding each and every bit he gave them as much as she was. They both tried to give a story, too, for each one he gave them, because, as easy as everything felt between them, he was still defensive, at the start of every story, like he was expecting them to snap and balk at whatever he had to say. Which was ridiculous—he hadn’t told them anything  _ scary _ . Ridiculous, sure—see, nerf sword fight in Damascus—but nothing that would make her or Hardison turn and run.

She liked those days best, though, slight hiccups aside.

There was something  _ right  _ about Eliot just being in their space, especially now that they had some idea about who everyone was—that wasn’t to say they knew  _ everything _ ; of course not. He had asked them to stop looking and they did. But, he was definitely more at ease.

He smiled more often—which, she had to double check that with Hardison because she’d noticed something different, sure, but she hadn’t put it together until she’d asked Hardison if he’d noticed anything. He’d gotten real quiet for a moment, like he normally did when she asked him something, before shrugging, “He’s smiling now. Not just with his eyes.” He let himself move easier—that, she didn’t need Hardison to confirm; the shift was too close to how she moved when she had to grift with Sophie and when she was allowed to go back to her preferred spot on the sidelines—more settled in his skin, okay with showing that he knew exactly where his body was and how to flow with it, in the moment.

Him in their space also had the bonus effect of helping Hardison loosen up. giving him something else,  _ someone  _ else to focus on, rather than who they were hunting (who was hunting them). She liked watching them together—Eliot trying to hide a smile and failing (his nose scrunched up, every time, making him look grumpy and ridiculous and she wondered if he knew he had a tell like that) and Hardison laughing, open and bright, or snarking, quick and smart. She hadn’t seen Hardison like that since before they’d started after Moreau, having gotten far too stretched out there towards the end, whittled down to someone determined and competent, but unable to step and bow back without snapping.

(What frustrated her more about that was that she hadn’t  _ noticed  _ that he’d gotten like that—taut and dangerous, ready to follow Nate until they won or they broke—until they were out and there was something else for him to focus on, to latch onto, something outside this whole mess. And even then, she’d rather focus on the relief of seeing him smile like that again—as bright and beautiful as he should be, as he always was—than the frustration of hindsight.)

All of this was, honestly, why she was more than a little nervous about their call with Nate and Sophie that night. Hardison had told her how Eliot had reacted to the last call with Nate, and she really didn’t want to lose this. Everything was still so fragile, in a way she couldn’t really grasp, couldn’t twist around to examine and poke at, but  _ knew _ anyway. But, Sophie and Nate needed to know that Eliot knew about them, and Eliot deserved to know who out there would know his name.

Eliot hadn’t looked…happy, when they’d told him. His face had done something weird though that she couldn’t quite parse, and he’d agreed. She thought he was trying to decide between being thankful they told him and resigned to what was going on. Maybe. If he did it again, she’d ask Hardison.

So, he was coming over in about ten minutes, they have the phone call, and then pizza and movies. Easy. Hopefully.

Hardison was at ease, apparently, fiddling with his computer setup—not the nervous rearranging he sometimes got into when he was trying to subtly freak out, but the general fidgetiness that came from a mind going too fast to sit still—which helped her nerves calm down, just that little bit. Up until Nate’s face popped up on the tv. Hardison had said they were Germany, last time he’d checked, but the room was every moderately nice hotel room in the world. Sophie was sitting cross-legged on the bed just behind Nate—and seeing them both made something uncurl in her stomach, settling at seeing them safe and at seeing Sophie soft and smiley. Not her fake smiley either, not one of her masks.

Hardison adjusted some control—volume probably—before relocating to sit next to Parker on the couch (she was perched on the back, and the fact that he sat close enough to lean against her leg, but still far enough that she could easily move away if she wanted to, set off little tangles in her chest that she would deal with  _ later _ ).

“Well, you two’re looking good. Better than the last time we talked.” Nate said after raising an eyebrow at the two of them. Parker just grinned. She knew why—and having that knowledge that Nate didn’t, even if just for a moment, made her feel like a kid getting away with a wallet. Just a bit of fun, no harm done.

...wait. That wasn’t right. Close enough though.

“—ow’s the search going your way?” Hardison was finishing asking. Whoops, looks like she missed a bit there. Since no one was staring at her, she figured it was safe enough to expect they weren’t looking for a response from her though.

“Good—we’ve run into a couple leads on Moreau here. He’s planning something big. Soon. Might work to our advantage if we can figure out the details. How’re things on your end?” There’s a pinch to Hardison’s eyes that Parker’s pretty sure Nate doesn’t see—Sophie might, but she can’t tell if that’s an ‘interested’ head tilt or a ‘spotted something’ one.

“Long story short? Everything I’ve been able to save is buried as deep as I can get it. The heat on that’s been cooling off at least—finally. The best lead we got right now is those files you copied from Alexander Moto though. Figuring out which web is hers and which is just that man’s mess of connections is taking awhile though, since I can’t use most of my old networks. But there isn’t even a whisper of us out here, so, you know, take your time or whatever. Ain’t nothing happening out here.” She shoots him a sideways look—his voice doing the same thing Eliot’s face had earlier, so maybe she was right. Thankful and resigned. Maybe.

Nate’s nodding though, ready to move on, though to what she has no idea, when the door opens behind them and the sound of claws scrabbling over hardwood echoes through the house. She grins, pressing her leg to Hardison and waiting for him to wrap an arm around her knee before bending over backwards, hanging upside down and holding out her hands. Megs is there immediately, absolutely  _ thrilled  _ to see her apparently, if the way he’s trying to lick at her face is any indication.

“You know, before you two, he wasn’t nearly this much of an attention hog, I swear,” is Eliot’s grumble a couple steps away and Parker can’t help but grin up at him.

“Hey, E.” She hears Hardison say, and she picks up that that pinched quality is immediately gone. Good.

“Hey, man. Alright, mutt, let the lady breathe…” She laughs slightly as Megs is physically lifted up and away from her, easily pulling herself up to sit on the back of the couch again. Hardison doesn’t pull his hand away, and since the touch isn’t fuzzing around the back of her brain like contact sometimes does, but instead just feels warm and nice, she makes no move to make him.

“Okay so. Other update. Remember the neighbor?” Hardison asks, at which point Eliot blinks and actually seems to notice the faces on the tv. Megs is put down to let him wave, slightly awkwardly. Hardison opens his mouth, then closes it again, glancing back at Eliot, both of them having some kind of conversation with their eyebrows and small head shakes and hand movements. Eventually, Hardison just rolls his eyes, Eliot shoves his hands in his pockets, and Hardison turns back to Nate and Sophie—who’re watching the both of them with interest; Sophie looks downright gleeful actually. “Right, fine. So, we told him who we were—Nate, let me finish, alright? Just, impatient—and well. His name’s Eliot Spencer. Semi-retired… hitter? Retrieval specialist? ...he’s Dayan, alright? We trust him.” Eliot seems to startle slightly at that last part, though Parker can’t really think  _ why  _ he would. She was pretty sure they’d made that clear.

“Eliot Spencer? I know that name.” Nate mutters, still clearly not happy with the development, but working through it as quickly as he normally does, hard eyes trained on Eliot, who, despite curling in his shoulders slightly (looking smaller), meets the look head on with one of his own, “I chased you, back—”

“Five years ago. I know who you are, Ford. Caused a bit of noise when you went off the streets.” Eliot breaks in, crossing his arms over his chest. Parker grimaces, reaching out to poke at his shoulder. He spares her a glance out of the corners of his eyes, something shifting in them, before he eases out of the soldier-tense pose, just slightly. It’s enough at least.

“...well, you two know each other, but this is the first time we’re meeting. Sophie Devereaux, at your service.” Sophie interjects before Nate can continue, voice a little too low-pitched and—oh, she’s flirting—slipping off the bed to come lean over Nate’s shoulder, closer to the computer screen. Parker scrunches up her nose. Weird.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” At least Eliot sounds normal, the raised eyebrow giving off his regular level of carefully unimpressed. The ‘ma’am’ makes Parker giggle though, even as Sophie’s practiced smile turns into a smirk, and Nate huffs.

“Cheeky. I like this one, you two.” Parker grins, Sophie’s approval sitting warm in the back of her mind. It’s not like they would’ve dropped Eliot and run had Sophie (or Nate, who still looked like he might) not given approval, but still. It was nice that they liked him. Or would at least tolerate him, if the elbow she saw Sophie subtly dig into Nate’s side was anything to go by.

“Alright, alright. You two seem to have a handle on everything. We’ll let you know how these leads look in a couple days—week at most. Keep us updated on your end?” Hardison shot Nate an unimpressed look and Nate just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, good. And Hardison? We’re talking about this,” the handwave pretty neatly encompassed all of them, “later. Alright, bye.” And the screen went dark.

A moment later though, Sophie’s face pops back up, Nate nowhere in sight. “Don’t mind him. It’s really good to see you two doing so well—we were worried there for a bit you know? Whatever you’re doing to help, Eliot—oh don’t look at me like that Hardison, I know  _ all  _ about things like _ this _ , especially with you two—keep it up.” She grins at them, soft and warm, before the screen flickers to black again, and they’re left in silence.

Hardison has a weird look on is face—owl-eyed and blinking—while Eliot just looks… thoughtful? After a moment, he glances down between Hardison and her, clearly piecing  _ something  _ together before he blinks slowly. “...oh. Huh,” he mutters—soft enough that she’s pretty sure if she wasn’t looking at him, she wouldn’t have caught it—before doing that grumpy not-smile of his. “You ordering pizza or what?” he asks, finally breaking whatever spell Hardison had been under for a minute there.

“Wha—Oh, right, yeah, I can do that.” He stumbles, snagging his phone and hopping off the couch to go do just that.

She had no idea what was up with either of them, but, since it didn’t seem to be an actual  _ problem _ , she just reached back and hauled Eliot over the back of the couch—which, despite his squawk, she knew he wouldn’t have moved if he hadn’t wanted to, so she felt absolutely no shame in laughing when he landed in a heap next to her.

“Easy, Parker…” he grumbled at her, with absolutely no heat, shoving himself up to sit in his normal corner on the couch, Megs immediately taking the spot between his feet.

(Some nights, he sat on the floor between them again, like he had the night they dragged him over, letting them watch his back. It wasn’t often, and both her and Hardison were careful not to mention anything about it since they were pretty sure it had something to do with bad nights and heavy mornings and they didn’t want to scare him off. She felt something unclench in her chest, that he was comfortable to be up on the couch with them, after that phone call. Everything was going to be just fine.)

Hardison was back a couple moments later, dropping down on her other side. She’s pretty sure he’s trying to be subtle, with how often he looks over out of the corner of his eyes—and, who knew, maybe he was being subtle, and she was just too keyed on him to miss it—but, he didn’t look like he wanted to talk about whatever was bugging him. Instead, he acted completely normal—sniping with Eliot all through the movie, playing the same song and dance they always did when it came time to pay for the food when it showed up, settling in towards the end of the movie—all soft and rumpled, but still going a mile a minute.

Eliot left shortly after the movie—he’d stuck around to chatter about nothing, everything, Parker didn’t know, the actual conversation wasn’t nearly as comforting as the blanket of quiet that had settled over them when the tv went dark. It was like their morning silences—warm, easy to bend but hard to break, comfortable and just  _ there _ . But then he was talking about wanting to be up early for something—some part of his renovation on the house—and that he should get going, even though it was clear he didn’t really want to.

But out the door he went. Parker cleaned up what was left of dinner, Hardison fiddling with something back over in his corner setup.

Something was off—had been all night, but it wasn’t any clearer  _ what _ now than it had been earlier.

“Hey. You okay?” 

He started pretty badly, blinking up at her—she hadn’t been trying to sneak up next to his chair, no more than she ever did. His smile was genuine though, soft and fragile as it was. She frowned, reaching out to gently press her fingers to his shoulder, that delicate tilt turning warm and settling the worry in her lungs.

“I’m fine, promise. Sophie just said something weird, got me thinking is all.” Sophie said… Oh.

“About Eliot helping us out?” He blinked up at her again, before his hands flew up to emphasize his very emphatic head shake.

“No, not...wait.” And that head shake turned into a nod, hands staying just as involved somehow (that habit was one of her favorite of his, honestly), “Okay, yes, that. Do you know what she was talking about?” He was getting flustered, but for the life of her, Parker couldn’t figure out why.

“Well, he does. You’re… easier, around him. Even if you’re frustrated with everything. He helps me stay focused, when you’re needed over here.” She shrugged, “He makes sure we eat more than takeout and pizza.” She squinted slightly, wondering how to put the last part going round and round in her head for a moment, “...coffee, food, movie nights…they’re reminders. That we have something, out here. It’s not… We’re not  _ alone _ , here. Not  _ just _ away from Sophie and Nate and home. It’s  _ not  _ home here, but Eliot makes it a little easier, right?”

He’s blinking at her again, hands curled in his lap. “Yeah. No, that’s…that’s right.” His voice is soft, low, eyes focused on her with enough attention to make her skin feel tight. It wasn’t a  _ bad  _ thing, but…it made her feel weird, just then. Unsure.

“I like him here,” she offers up after a moment, fingers flicking together in a fidget.

“Yeah, mama. I do too.” Hardison gives back almost immediately, tone reassuring. Who, exactly, it’s for, she doesn’t think even he knows. But, something hits her then—why there’s been this weird air around Hardison since Sophie spoke up, why it was so easy to defend Eliot in their space, why she didn’t even question what Sophie had said.

“...Eliot’s kind of like pretzels too, right?” It’s too simple to explain what she’s asking—knows it is as soon as it’s out of her mouth. But it also fits exactly what she means so she lets it hang.

A careful tilt of his head as he leans back in his chair, “I think,” he pauses, eyeing her, look soft and bright and wondering, and that unsure feeling melts away, easy as anything, “I think that’d be up to him, yeah?”

There’s something unsaid there, something heavy and taut—not expecting, not pushing, just unequivocally  _ there _ , left in her hands to do something about it. If she wants to.

It’s not that she hasn’t thought about it, since that conversation in the bar. It’s hard  _ not  _ to think about it—not when her heart lights up every time Hardison smiles, every time his laugh fills up whatever space they’re in. Not when something low in her stomach hurts when she sees that pinch to his eyes, when he pulls back into himself because that’s not  _ right _ . Hardison is big, bright, full of light, not some narrow pinprick, shining thin and weak.

But, up until the last couple of weeks, something else had reared up whenever she’d let herself linger on thinking too hard on it—something slick and uncomfortable, in the back of her throat. Sophie had called it butterflies, nerves, when Parker had asked. Parker didn’t think that really covered it though, even if those were  _ part  _ of it. It was more like…like her first jump. Her first real one—that one step out a door that would close permanently behind her, a wide open street, lit only by streetlights, stretching out before her, too wide and fuzzy at the edges for her tiny self to hope to cover, but heading so inevitably forward that she couldn’t help but  _ go _ .

_ That’s _ what this felt like. She couldn’t feel out the edges, couldn’t see where this road went, didn’t know if she’d know all the twists and turns, or if something would happen and the road would crumble under her feet—didn’t know if she could catch herself before she fell with it—didn’t know if it’d veer so sharp it’d look like it was turning back on itself.

But. But. She’d taken that step. She’d made that jump, once before. She could do it again. In that moment, she  _ knew _ she could.

“Eliot’s not like pretzels. Not quite.” She’s rather proud of the fact that her voice doesn’t shake—not even a little bit, and that gives her the confidence she needs for the rest, “He’s something different, I think.” And Hardison’s nodding along, expression confused, but he’s focused on her, and his attention now just makes her feel lit up. “Because. Because I’m sure I’m in the mood for pretzels, right now. And I want to figure that out, first.”

And Hardison’s face is frozen there, for a moment, before it fades, mouth dropping open, just enough to let her know that that was  _ not  _ what he was expecting then. She’d laugh, just a bit, but it didn’t feel like the right moment for that. Wide, beautiful eyes were looking at her in a way she couldn’t quite figure out—but that made her feel small and up so high at the same time—and the small, lopsided smile that follows after a moment is the best thing she’s seen in a long time.

On a whim—because it feels right, and she’s floating up high—she leans over to gently press a kiss to his cheek. He lets out a low sound, like he’s just lost his breath, a hand coming up to gently catch her hand, curling their fingers together.

It’s grounding, pulling her back down to earth. But there’s no weight to it, nothing that would trap her, if she didn’t want to be there.

(She wants to though, so she tightens her grip, and pulls him close, and lets herself fall.)


	9. Chapter 9

_ Hardison_

 

Hardison was not freaking out. He sincerely wasn’t. That wasn’t what this was. But, he also couldn’t really pinpoint _what_ this was, and freaking out really seemed to be the only thing that covered it. But, he didn’t really like that—because it implied that it was something _bad_. And this? This wasn’t bad. This was so far from bad it wasn’t in the same galaxy. Not even in a neighboring one.

He’d spent the last day just shy of literally _flying_. Too happy, too bright, to do much else.

Nothing had even really _changed_ was the best part. They still got up the next morning after Parker had kissed him, went for coffee and breakfast over at Eliot’s. Parker sat a little closer than usual, they were both perhaps a little more awake, and maybe Eliot caught onto _something_ between them, but he’d kind of just smiled and shook his head and shooed them off after breakfast, begging off dinner that night so that he could go do…whatever it was he wasn’t doing with them.

(...at some point he should probably ask after that, for curiosity's sake. Because it clearly wasn’t working on the house.)

They’d gotten back, and the day had honestly (almost) been like any other. They stuck to their own thing—Hardison on his computers, finishing the last of the clean up, finally, Parker poking around the house or disappearing outside for awhile—but every once in awhile, she’d slip into his space, eye him for a moment to wait for a nod (which he always gave, grinning the entire time), before pressing another kiss to his cheek. She’d grin back at him, small and bubbly, and then go back to whatever it was she was doing. Or he’d call her over for her opinion on something he’d found and she’d end up pressed to his side for that brief moment of warmth and ease and he’d be soaring again. And, if he got a nod, he could wrap an arm around her, pull her close enough to press a kiss to her temple before she’d dance away again to go do her own thing.

The feeling in the house was still easy, still settled and quiet. They didn’t need to fill it and nerves weren’t even close to encroaching. There was a newness to everything—but it was an extra, rather than all there was. He didn’t know if that’d fade, or replace the stillness between them, or something else, but right now, he didn’t much care. Rather, he really kind of just wanted to _enjoy_ the newness for a little while—enjoy the new feeling of Parker laughing as she kissed his cheek, or giggling when he kissed hers.

So. Why was he awake, before the sun was even up—or, _still_ awake since he hadn’t actually...slept last night. Not just because of this, but he’d finally gotten a start on Moto’s network and the next time he’d looked up it’d been four in the morning—with a buzzing across his skin, half-formed nerves sticking together at the back of his mind, fuzzing at the edges and refusing to give him something concrete to work with. He didn’t necessarily feel bad, he wasn’t panicking, but _something_ was kicking up a fuss in his stomach and head and it didn’t feel great either. And he knew it had _something_ to do with him and Parker, but for the life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint it.

He was too busy trying to tease out what the hell was going on in his head he almost missed Parker’s call through his door, just as the sun was starting to light up his windows (if you wanted to call it that, given how weak it was), “Taking Megs out! Back later!”

“Wha—Does Eliot know?” he calls back, scrambling to get to the door.

“Left a note!”

He was out quick enough to see her back as she disappeared out the front door, but that was about it. Way too quickly, he heard Megs barking—which meant either Eliot let him out, Parker learned to teleport without telling him, or she’d gone to get Megs and then come back to tell him.

...should probably check with Eliot on that. Not that Hardison thought he’d care—Eliot had been pretty much on board with every Megs request Parker had thrown at him in the past couple of weeks. And despite the off-the-cuff idea of a note, he knew Parker wouldn’t just take Megs if Eliot hadn’t made it very clear at some point that he’d be cool with it.

Double-checking never hurt though. Or at least updating Eliot before he panicked if he didn’t see the note immediately.

(And maybe, just maybe, he could talk with Eliot about _this_. Couldn’t hurt to get a second opinion. Parker had Sophie to talk to after all. And he wasn’t about to go ask Nate. So, Eliot.)

So, after quickly changing into something more socially acceptable for visiting friends—while he was pretty sure Eliot would get a kick out of the fact that Hardison had Star Wars pajama pants (he knew Eliot thought he was hilarious, alright? If the man would just _admit_ it to himself, they’d all be much happier), he didn’t really think now was the time—he locked up and headed over.

Wonder upon wonders, he realized on the way over, it was actually earlier than their normal coffee trips—which explained the weak sunlight only just now starting to pour into the valley, and the fact that Eliot wasn’t out on the porch. As it had started getting colder, Parker and him had started going over later and later, waiting until the sun had at least cleared the horizon. He didn’t remember ever actually _deciding_ that, which meant either Parker had and he’d just followed along, or they’d both vaguely decided it while half-awake one morning.

He made it up to the front porch before he hesitated slightly. Sure, he knew Parker broke in pretty regularly now, and nowadays he spent most of his mornings in Eliot’s house. But, it just occurred to him, the only time he’d gone through the front door was when they’d broken in. And, besides that, he’d never been around without Eliot basically shoving them inside to eat. So this was new territory.

And it _shouldn’t_ be, was the thing. Eliot let himself into their house all the time—sure, they’d had to yell at him the first couple of times to just come in, because he’d knocked on the door every single time, like someone who was raised with manners, go figure.

He’s pretty sure it’s Nana’s voice he hears in the back of his head when his hand goes to the doorknob to let himself in, and he doesn’t even fight it at this point, instead raising his hand to knock. She’d tried to raise him right after all.

His knock went unanswered. Eliot was definitely home though—the truck was still in the driveway, and he’d never once seen what the other car in the garage even was, so the chance of this being the one day it was gone was minimal. And, as much Eliot seemed to like to work out, Hardison had never seen him out running on the street. And Eliot didn’t really strike him as a jogger anyway.

There were a couple moments in there where he had a fight with his conscience—which really did sound frighteningly like Nana, what the hell—about the merits of just slipping in. Parker did it all the time. Eliot did it all the time. If Eliot didn’t want him around, he’d tell him.

...to hell with it. He tried the doorknob...only to find it locked because, oh right, their neighbor was a paranoid criminal, just like them.

(All the times Eliot had glared at their unlocked door made a bit more sense now.)

And he could hack any kind of lock except a manual one—despite Parker’s best efforts.

So, he groaned, resting his forehead against the door for a moment before pulling back to knock again, louder this time. That got him a curse and what sounded like a thump, then quiet for a long couple of moments before the door was yanked open and he was left facing a clearly just-woken-up-Eliot—dressed in sweats and a tanktop, hair every which way. He looked...soft (once he’d dropped out of a tense when he registered that it was Hardison at the door), rumbled, and adorabl—okay, Hardison was going to be revisiting that later.

(Sure, Parker had pointed out Eliot was _like pretzels_ , and Hardison wholeheartedly agreed, even if that had given him a near heart attack at the time. He still hadn’t sat down and actually worked through _what_ that meant, and now was not the time.)

“...my dog is gone. Parker have something to do with it?” Eliot asked, voice rough around the tail end of a yawn as he turned away, leaving the door open. Which Hardison was going to take as an invitation, so he slipped in after him, shutting the door behind him.

“She said she left a note?” he ventured, glancing around to see if she left it anywhere obvious. Eliot wasn’t freaking out, so his original assumption that Parker had gotten some idea that he’d be okay with this was ringing true at least. It took a moment to find, but there was the note, on her normal seat at the bar. Eliot found it a moment later, taking a second to read it before rolling his eyes.

“Should I be worried that she just likes me for my dog?” he asks, shooting a look back at Hardison, a small smirk ticking up the corners of his lips, looking way too amused this early in the morning. So, Hardison raised a hand, fingers close together in a ‘little bit’ gesture, just to see Eliot scrunch up his face slightly, pretending offense, but only able to hold it for a moment before he laughed softly, shaking his head. “You flying solo this morning then? Sounds like Parker’s planning on being out most of the day,” he says after glancing at the note again.

“Looks like. Really just wanted to make sure you were cool with the whole...dognapping thing,” Hardison answered, shrugging slightly and shoving his hands in his pocket, suddenly getting hit with a bit of...reserve? Maybe? Which was weird. Him and Eliot spent plenty of time alone—Parker liked to disappear to go explore the town a lot, which left him and Eliot at the house all the time.

But not in Eliot’s space. Parker was the one who showed up alone for coffee and breakfast if he didn’t want to get out of bed that early. Parker was the one who broke into Eliot’s place and had somehow endeared herself enough to him to get carte blanche acceptance of it.

Hardison didn’t really...have that. And standing here now, in Eliot’s living room, having clearly woken the man up earlier than him and Parker really ever came over, throwing up some excuse about the damn dog and wondering if it really was a good idea to try asking him after the _thing_ still buzzing around the back of his head or if he should just play it cool and do coffee like normal, or if he should just beg off again and hightail it back to the house.

“...so, you gonna say what’s got you upset or we gonna pretend nothing’s wrong?” Eliot asked after a moment, heading into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee—keeping his back to Hardison, which don’t think he didn’t notice that.

“Okay, how do you keep doing that?” was the first thing out of Hardison’s mouth despite it definitely not being the most important point here. Eliot glanced over his shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow. “...you know, knowing something’s...off.” He waved a hand, but by Eliot’s look, it probably didn’t demonstrate everything Hardison needed it to.

“The only time you’re still is if something’s wrong. Or _off_ ,” he added, very clearly rolling his eyes despite the fact that Hardison can’t see his face.

But, back to what Eliot’s actually said.

...huh. Hardison couldn’t say he’d ever really noticed going still, if it was really as sharp as Eliot’s tone was making it sound. Then again, it might just be an Eliot thing—he’d caught bits and pieces, here and there, in his stories, about him knowing details that were just a little too fine and minute for most people (weapon IDs off sounds comes to mind. Though, to be fair, that part of the story was a little fuzzy). But even then, there was something to those minute details, something there, so there had to be something to what Eliot was saying now, even if Hardison hadn’t ever noticed it.

“You gonna answer the question, or we going with the second option?” Eliot asked, moving around the kitchen—getting breakfast started, Hardison realized. No bailing then.

He let himself have a moment, slipping into his normal seat at the bar and chewing at his lip. He knew Eliot _would_ let it drop, if Hardison wanted him to. They’d done the same thing for him.

But Hardison _had_ come over here hoping to talk to Eliot about this—get an outside opinion on the tangle sitting heavy at the back of his mind—regardless of the excuse of Parker and Megs. But he didn’t really know how to put it together enough to explain.

So. Start with the basics. Work from there.

“...Parker and I are together. Now. Uh. After dinner two nights ago.” They could work out actual words—actual boundaries and plans and everything—later, when the newness loses a bit of its shine and settles into something comfortable instead. He didn’t know what reaction he was expecting from Eliot, hadn’t even thought to consider one, really.

But Eliot kind of just glanced over to blink at him, before he broke out a wide smile, eyes bright. “‘Bout damn time, you two.” And he just sounded so excited for them, so sure, that Hardison couldn't help but smile back even as he felt his face heat up.

“That obvious, huh?”

Eliot snorted at him, not enough to break the grin though, raising his hand in a mimic of the ‘little bit’ gesture Hardison had given him earlier before turning back to the stove top.

“That’s really great though, man,” Eliot offered after a moment, tone softer, warmer, and something in Hardison’s chest bloomed, just a little bit, under that surety, that confidence.

And then Eliot paused. Went still, really. (Hardison was pretty sure he didn’t look like that when _he went_  still though.)

“...that’s not what you’re freaking out over, right?” And the thing was, he sounded  _worried_. He'd only just heard about them, but it damn near sounded like he’d legitimately be let down if Hardison was.

“No! Not—well. Okay, first off, I’m not freaking out. Stop saying that. It’s not _bad_ , alright? I’m ecstatic—Parker’s my best friend, and yeah, we’d talked about this a couple months ago, and I would’ve waited until she said yes or no however long she needed, no problem, would’ve stayed her friend or backed off if she’d wanted me to, just fine, I _liked_ us like we were, but she said yes two days ago, and that’s _amazing_! Best damn thing that could’ve happened,” he needed Eliot to believe him, to see that he was telling the truth on that, and Eliot flipped off the stove and turned to face him, quiet as anything, but giving him his full attention (and holy hell, his look was almost as intense as Parker’s could get and...actually, that helped settle his nerves, just a little bit, to be the focus of familiar attention), “But.” And there was nothing on the other end of that—no sputtering, no thoughts fighting to get out. Just, nothing.

Eliot gave him a moment, but Hardison kind of just had to shrug and duck his head, only to blink when a mug of coffee appeared in his line of sight, already sweetened perfectly. He murmured a thanks, pulling it closer, letting the warmth of the mug in his hands settle him just a little bit. “But. This is new. And your big brain is working itself into a tizzy trying to figure out everything at once. Sound about right?”

...huh. He glanced up long enough to nod with a sheepish smile. Eliot rolled his eyes at him, but he was still smiling, just that little bit, so Hardison didn’t take any offense. It _was_ a little ridiculous, he could own that. “Just...Parker _is_ my best friend. I don’t. I don’t want to mess this up, you know? She’s putting a lot on the line by saying yes—this isn’t easy for her,” he paused, voice a lot smaller than he’d like when he continued, “or me. I know she’s worried—has been worried, for awhile. And I am too, a little bit. I don’t want things to fall apart, even if we can’t keep... _this_ going. But the chance to try? I wouldn’t give that up either. And...yeah.”

Eliot was watching him over his own mug of coffee, look fond and soft and Hardison couldn’t decide if the look was uncomfortable or not. It knew way too much though, that’s for sure.

(He knew. It was comfortable, if a little terrifying, that someone could see through him so easily after so little time. But, it was Eliot. Hardison couldn’t find it in him to worry too much.)

“Relationships ain’t easy. Not like everyone thinks they ought to be. I’m not gonna tell you to stop worrying—but I am gonna tell you not to let it get to ya. Worrying means you’re paying attention—overreacting means something else entirely.” Eliot grimaced slightly at the end of that, like that wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted to say. But, he didn’t offer up anything else to replace it, so Hardison figured it covered the meaning well enough.

And Hardison got it. He did. It sounds exactly like something his Nana would say—the highest praise he could offer for advice, honestly. But.

“Okay, I get that. I’m not...I’m not expecting everything to just fall together.” Even if it kinda had already. But it’s been two days. Even he’s not _that_ optimistic. Sometimes. “But, is the only option really to just...flail and hope things work out? Hope nothing bad happens by accident?” He’s not panicking, not yet, but knew he as soon as it was out of his mouth that he could be. Very soon. His voice might’ve pitched higher towards the end there.

And not even because he thought something bad was going to happen, but he felt like a little kid who just got something they’d wanted _forever_ , and everything is _a lot_ and if he didn’t do something, it would be too much and wow he should’ve taken some time for himself to work this out because what the hell. It wasn't like this came out of nowhe—nope, that was exactly what had happened. Sophie had made a comment about them and Eliot, and then Parker was telling him his birthday and Christmas had come early, and he hadn’t actually sat down and figured out what to do about Sophie’s little truth bomb, let alone Parker’s, and now the adrenaline rush was crashing.

Hardison was not a fan.

“No. And I know you know that. You’re working yourself up and I need you to breathe.” He waited for Hardison to give a slight nod and visibly breathe out, which, yeah, helped a little bit. He even let go of his death grip on the coffee mug. “What I meant was—don’t go in thinking everything’s going to be easy and getting yourself worked up ‘cause it’s not. Especially not from the start. Those couples—the ones everyone looks to, says they’re made for each other, says they’ve got a storybook romance? They worked for it. And they work for it every damn day. But, here’s the thing. The longer you work at most things? The easier it gets. Easier to read when someone’s struggling—when you need to back off or step up. Easier to ask for a bit of help here and there. Easier to figure out when to stand and when to bend. You two’ll get there if you keep paying attention, and you work at it,” Eliot paused, eyeing him for a moment, “and you don’t get up in your own head. Seriously, man. You’re fine. Give yourself a break,” he adds after a breath, tone low and gentle and exactly what Hardison needed to hear.

This wasn’t new, was the thing. He’d heard it a lot, growing up. From foster parents who had spent more time trying to convince the kids they were fine than working on their marriage, to the social workers who’d come by to take him to a new place when they finally fell apart, to more innocently watching his friends dive into the minefield that was dating in high school and having to haul one or two back out again before they did something irreversible, to even his Nana telling his little brothers and sisters (and him, but he was Too Old for that at the time) not to let anyone walk over them because relationships weren’t meant to drag someone along, to break someone down unintentionally or not. They were meant to be built together and it didn’t matter what other people thought (and that she’d be right there, if they needed, if accidents happened anyway, and he’d caught the look she’d shot him where he’d been so subtly listening from the kitchen).

But this was the first time it had actually...sunk in. And maybe it was because he was finally facing one himself instead of watching others in their relationships. Maybe it was because he was in a friend’s space, allowed to break for a moment and worry and fret and be pulled back together. Maybe it was because Eliot had gone back to cooking when it was clear Hardison needed a moment to process, but he wasn’t even trying to hide the looks he was shooting Hardison’s way, worried and fond and soft.

And maybe the chocolate chip pancakes Eliot slid in front of him a couple moments later really helped it stick. Who knew.

(Also, at some point, they should probably point out that they knew he only bought the chocolate chips for them. Just to see him get flustered. But not right now. That’d be mean.)

They were quiet for a little while, Eliot standing on the other side of the bar, eating his own pancakes (without the chocolate, like some kind of heathen.) And despite Hardison’s little freak out at the door, this didn’t feel any different than any other morning, or any other evening when it was just him and Eliot for a little while.

Maybe it was a little quieter, maybe a little closer, but Hardison couldn’t tell if that was because of them, or because of the relief of figuring his own head out so everything just seemed a touch brighter. He figured it didn’t matter much either way.

Except, now that he _was_ calm (sure, he still had some stuff to work out, but it wasn't urgent, it wasn't fuzzing his head and poking at his nerves, so it could wait), he was kind of curious. Eliot sounded so _sure_ , so deadset in what he was saying. So he was either just really pragmatically optimistic or...

“...you ever loved anyone?” he asked, keeping his tone light, curious. Yeah, he wanted to know more about Eliot—despite all of them getting closer these past couple of weeks, the man was still frighteningly good at keeping the topic off himself. Every story he shared about what he used to do (always light, always easily brushed away) was a gift, and maybe he wanted to know just a little bit more. But he also knew that poking a damn bear was a bad idea.

Eliot glanced up at him for a moment, blowing a strand of hair out of his face (and had Hardison ever seen Eliot leave his hair a mess this long? ...hell, had he even ever seen his hair a mess in the first place, without a bandana or an attempt to tie it back? He was thinking no) “Loved plenty. Been in love once or twice.”

And Hardison probably looked a little too eager at that last part, because Eliot rolled his eyes, nose scrunching up slightly. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t anything...serious.” Or, you know, it was very serious. Hardison was getting the feeling it was the latter.

“What was her name?” he asked, biting back a grin at the dirty look Eliot shot him.

“...girl I grew up with.” Eliot shrugged a shoulder. “Man that came home wasn't worth her waiting for. She married someone else.”

“Hot-damn. What did you do?”

“What did I do? I liberated Croatia,” Eliot snapped, no actual heat behind it even as he stabbed a pancake far more than it deserved, trying to look threatening, so Hardison didn’t feel too bad about grinning slightly. There was a very, very thin line here, where on one side Eliot was clearly okay with teasing—it had to have ended a long time ago, long enough that the hurt had smoothed away, left little more than memory behind—and on the other he very clearly wasn’t, and Hardison really didn’t want to overstep.

(They were eventually coming back to the Croatia thing though. Because, seriously?)

“Oh, see, now, me, I would have just run off and started up a comic-book shop or something,” Hardison offered, just to see Eliot roll his eyes again. “...but you did say once or ‘twice,’” Hardison said after another quiet moment. So sue him, he was curious. This was more direct history of Eliot than they’d gotten in awhile.

Eliot shot him a look out of the corner of his eyes for a long moment, and Hardison just smiled, open and easy, ready to move on and pretend he never asked if need be. And maybe that was what did it, or maybe Eliot just decided on his own, who knew. “We served together. Got to a point, didn’t know if I loved him or was in love with him,” he shrugged again, dragging a hand through his hair—only to pause when his fingers caught on a tangle, as if he hadn’t actually noticed his hair was an actual mess right now. “Didn’t much matter. He got out before I did. Last I heard, married his high school sweetheart. Two cute little kids running around.” And there was no bitterness there, no wistfulness either. This was another hurt (if it hurt at all) that had been sanded down and left smooth by memory.

(And maybe Hardison should be tripped up by the pronouns. But honestly? He was just adding that to the pile of _later_.)

He let the quiet that fell after that rest for a long couple of moments, focusing on his food and the easy air between them—Eliot had given something up, sure, but he wasn’t retreating, wasn’t turning in on himself, and Hardison was way more pleased with that than he was ever going to let on. Something needed to be said though, so before the silence grew heavy and warm (not oppressive, not taut), he reached over to tug on a strand of hair—knew Eliot saw him, knew Eliot let him.

“Thanks, E.” His voice was soft, probably softer than it needed to be, but this was exactly what he needed, and he knew emotional stuff wasn’t Eliot’s favorite conversation, especially not in the morning. But Eliot hadn’t even hesitated.

Eliot blinked at him, then snorted softly, gently swatting his hand away—rolling his eyes when Hardison snapped his hand away before Eliot can actually reach him, and honestly, he was starting to see why Parker liked poking at him so much—offering a small smile. “Just finish your breakfast. Some of us have things to do today.”

“Oh? And what’re you planning on doing today exactly?” Hardison asked, giving him that out, glancing around the living room with a critical eyebrow. When he looked back, Eliot was...actually blushing. Huh. With the mussed up hair, sleep-rumpled clothes, and easy set to his stance despite the arms crossed over his chest, it was adorable.

(...that later was going to have to be sooner.)

“I’m gonna go change. Don’t break anything.” Eliot grumped at him, but Hardison just grinned at his back and staid put. The door down the hall closed softly, so Hardison figured he was still in the clear—Eliot really was _not_ subtle when he was actually annoyed.

He had a few minutes though—mane of hair like that, Hardison was not entirely sure how much time he was going to spend on it, but if it was longer than ten minutes, he’d finally have grounds to tease him mercilessly about it—so he slipped off the bar and into the kitchen to get the dishes started, feeling calmer than he had all morning.

Everything was going to be just fine.

(It took twenty minutes for Eliot to come back out, hair neat and pulled back in a low tail, dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt, and he just shot Hardison a _look_ that Hardison was steadfast determined to ignore. It was great.)

* * *

So. Now.

Now was later.

But then Parker was tumbling through the door with an excited Megs hot on her heels, and Eliot was texting a _congratulations, see you two tomorrow_ , so it was just him and her tonight, and he decided later could wait a little longer.

Like Parker said. Focus on them right now. And, as her laugh bubbled up as he kissed her cheek, he figured, focusing on them was all he really wanted to do right now.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Eliot_

 

It had been too long. Eliot knew that as soon as he got in his truck and headed down the highway.

Not that it was a bad thing or anything—he wouldn’t trade his time with Parker and Hardison for anything. They made his mornings warm and sweet and his evenings fun and close, and it wasn’t like he was putting a straight stop to that anytime soon. As long as they’d have him, he didn’t see much of a reason to back off completely.

But. He had latched on. Hard. How long had it been since he’d spent a night away without thinking about the next day he could see them? Or figuring out what he was going to make for breakfast or dinner—what story to tell the next time they asked, how much longer he could get away with giving them decaf, what movie he could convince Hardison he hadn’t seen yet, what new food Parker needed to try…

Tonight though, tonight would be good for all of them. They needed some time, just to be  _ them _ , figure out where they stood and what had changed and what hadn’t, and all that—and  _ that  _ had been an interesting conversation this morning. Sure, he’d figured something to that effect had happened the morning before when they’d been so busy trying to sneak looks at each other and sharing small smiles that they would’ve given any teenage couple a run for their money, but actually hearing it had been...well, ‘wonderful’ would be a little too sappy for him. But it was great, honestly. They’d both looked ecstatic yesterday, and Hardison had been practically glowing when he’d finally calmed down this morning, and he couldn’t be happier for them. They were good together as friends. They were going to be great together as more.

Sure, some little part of his heart was curling in on itself, trying to figure out where it fell on the resigned-ecstatic scale, but, honestly? Eliot was too happy for them to give it much attention right now. He’d have to have a serious look at the tangle of emotions around the two of them, and soon—the realization that had followed Sophie…Devereaux’s? observation may have been sudden and striking, but it definitely wasn’t enough. But that was for later.

Right now, he was taking a night for himself. Hardison and Parker got the night to be their sickeningly cute selves, and he got a night of dancing and getting back on his feet. And tomorrow, if they wanted him back around so soon, then so be it. He’d just make it clear, coming up soon, that he  _ was  _ going to be making more time for himself and they should do the same—they’d all latched on hard and it wouldn’t do them any good in the long run.

So, down the road he went, driving that hour out to the nearest town big enough crowd on a Friday night like this to make it interesting. He’d been round the particular country-western bar he was aiming for plenty of times in the three years he’d been in the area, but it had been a good four or five months since he’d come back. Which was a shame. Sure it wasn’t the flashiest place, it was as likely to attract people coming in just to watch as it was to attract those looking to dance, and maybe it was a little rough for wear looking. But it always had a good energy to it, always boasted a good, happy crowd, the music was a good mix, and no one looked sideways if he decided to take another guy’s hand and haul him out to the dance floor (those that did kick up a fuss tended to be summarily shoved out. Without his intervention even. It was great.)

The space hadn’t changed a bit since he’d last been in. One busted light still flickered occasionally off in the corner, it was standing room only around a handful of well worn but clean tables and little to no room at the railing around the dancefloor, and the band in the raised corner was doing a decent job covering a range of classics and new songs, though a quick look told him they’d probably switch over to whatever DJ was on staff tonight in about half an hour or so.

He couldn’t do crowds like this regularly—knew it would set his teeth on edge. But, right now? This much energy, the press of people as he made his way to the bar, the sounds of the crowd only just missing drowning out the music, everyone clearly in a good mood this early in the night...it was exactly what he needed.

His drink didn’t last long before he was leaning on the railing, getting an eye on the crowd around. He wasn’t looking for anything more than a bit of fun tonight—he would be heading home on his own rather than to someone else’s place—and it didn’t take too long to find someone bright eyed and laughing, out for the same thing he was.

It felt good, letting go like this—moving like his body knew how to move after all these years, another person in his space and moving with rather than against him, laughing at missteps they both make (her not as polished, him getting caught up trying to be fancy and failing spectacularly), pressing a kiss to still grinning cheeks, getting one in return, and waving before being hauled out by someone else.

The only times he ended up back at the railing was during the line dances, and even then, that was only because it was more fun to watch other people deal with those ridiculous steps sometimes.

He was there until last call—kicked out with the last straggling couples and groups—feeling high and elated and just  _ good _ . It had been far too long since he’d taken time to himself, and even if he’d been somewhat doubting earlier how bad he needed it, he came out promising himself he was going to try to stick to doing it more regularly from now on.

The trip back home was a bit of a lazy blur—vague thoughts about if he should pick up Megs from Hardison and Parker’s or just leave him be and about the twirl the blond (Alex, sweet laugh, worked as a nurse up the road, spending the night out with friends) had thrown him into that had had him laughing and about the guitar he knew was somewhere in the guest room that maybe he should think about getting out at some point.

The car shouldn’t have caught his attention. Really, really shouldn’t have.

And for the sake of his own sanity, it didn’t. Much.

He slowed down as he rolled by—not enough to notice, not really—the gas station where it was the only car parked in the fluorescent halo. Simple, black car. No markings. Plate was a Colorado plate. The two men around it though? He  _ knew  _ one of them ( _ but it’s too far to be sure _ some little piece of his mind piped up, and he promptly told it to shut up when he got close enough and the guy turned just enough to get Eliot a clear view of his face). Fucking—man was little more than a kid, last he saw him, but that hadn’t made the mean glint in his eyes any less of a problem then. And he’d be willing to bet he had the same look now.

He didn’t stop his truck. He wasn’t going to overreact again, let this bring down his night. Because he didn’t have nearly enough information and they weren’t in his space this time. (Nevermind that this was the only road up to his town, his home, and the new look to the car meant rental, meant they wouldn’t be around long, which meant a job.) This highway was the only one in the area, and it could go on to any number of resorts up the mountain. His little town was barely a blip on the map for most people in the area, unless they needed a hotel for the night. This was not his concern.

(Maybe the cops got an anonymous tip about a suspicious looking car. But that was all he was going to do.)

And maybe he was stupidly grateful that as soon as that call ended, his mood caught back up, still light, still bright, just maybe a tad bit resentfully sharp just because, but whatever.

There were no dreams that night—no nightmares, no waking up before the sun and maybe it was petty, but he was pretty sure he had enough stubborn spite to fuel a small country, so hey.

By the next morning? He barely remembered the car, barely remembered the drive home. All he really remembered was twirling around, a sweet laugh, and plans to go again, soon.

Hardison and Parker were there, bright and early, like normal. The cold sent them inside for coffee instead of perching out on the porch—he wasn’t a huge fan of the cold if it wasn’t something he had to deal with but he  _ could  _ deal with it just fine, and he got the feeling Parker actually preferred the cold, but Hardison was wearing a thin jacket and was shivering on his porch even with Megs in his lap acting as his personal heater and that just wouldn’t do.

They looked good. Not that he’d been expecting anything else, after yesterday. They still sat closer together (he was pretty sure they thought they were being subtle), still stole glances here and there, and at one point he turned from the oven just in time to catch Parker pulling away from pressing a kiss to the corner of Hardison’s mouth—he was sitting there looking awed, she was looking mighty pleased with herself.

They looked  _ good _ . And Eliot was maybe smiling hard enough to hurt because they look  _ happy _ . Not that they’d looked sad or anything before this—but he’d seen the edges started to wear out, the longer they’d been out here. Now that he knew  _ why  _ they were out here, it was easier to pick out why they’d be roughed up in the first place, but even with that, they’d been fraying, just a bit there. Hardison getting frustrated with his searches and whatever it was he was doing on the computer (it all went pretty far over Eliot’s head when Hardison really got into it, which was fine, since it seemed just talking it out helped sometimes). Parker getting fidgety and needing to move and run (because her sudden increase in trips to town hadn’t gone unnoticed, thank you). 

It had been low key, sure. He wasn’t even sure how much they’d been aware of it. And he knew this wouldn’t  _ fix  _ everything—they were still out here, still away from their team, and still tracking down whoever it was that was hunting them (he’d tried to get them to spill, just a bit. But, apparently, when they were trying? They could keep a secret pretty well)—but it was a good start, and seeing them so easy with each other like this was just  _ nice  _ (though, he knew himself well enough to know that that pang his heart kept giving was going to have to be looked at soon, to figure out where he stood on a couple things).

Didn’t mean he didn’t roll his eyes and snort at their subtlety attempts because  _ really _ . They were just.

Cute. And young. And obviously  _ happy _ . And it was ridiculous.

At least they didn’t call him on the pancakes and chocolate crepes.

(And they still hadn’t noticed the decaf. Maybe he’d switch it back sometime soon.)

“You look good this morning, man. Have fun last night?” Hardison asked after their original sleepy chatter died down a bit. Parker’s eyes were immediately on him too, curious and intense, like usual.

And, fuck it, Eliot still felt good, so he shrugged and grinned behind his coffee mug. “A bit, yeah. Felt good to get out is all.” And now he had two very intense, very curious looks on him and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Just went out dancing, calm down you two. Do you want more pancakes?” And maybe Parker was still giving him a weird look, but it was less intense, and more interested, so he figured when she worked out what she wanted to say, she would. And regardless, he had two empty plates to fill.

* * *

He had the afternoon to himself—plans had already been made to go over for dinner, later that evening. Megs pulled a very dramatic, very heartbreaking flop when Parker had closed the door in his face. Eliot was pretty sure the dog hadn’t quite caught on that he’d see her again in like. Five hours. Max.

And while it wasn’t necessarily something he  _ wanted  _ to do, it was something he needed to do.

So, he changed and headed downstairs, grabbing his hand wraps and setting up his music and making sure Megs was fine in his bed by the stairs. He thought better when he was moving, worked through things better on his feet. And while he could go down to the gym—been a while since he’d been there too and wow where the hell has he been?—he didn’t much feel like the trek right now.

Simple. Jab. Breathe. Cross. Breathe.

Going and going and going until he could move through it without thinking about it, just letting his body do what it knew how to do.

Hardison and Parker.

Devereaux’s comment had caught him off guard, sure. But, at the time, he’d taken it, gotten a real good look at Hardison and Parker, and decided he rather liked the idea of sticking around, however they’d have him. And if it helped? So much the better.

These past couple of weeks, he’d had to admit to himself a couple times that he really should be keeping himself to himself, just a little bit more. Staying out of Hardison’s space, just that bit more, despite finding himself in it as easy as breathing when they’re in the same room. Moving away when Parker tried to use him as a jungle gym, despite having to fight back his own smile each and every time.

But Hardison was magnetic—so bright and quick, he just  _ wanted  _ to be right there, even if he couldn’t keep up. His hands flew over the keyboards, while he chattered a mile a minute, and Eliot was always struck by just what this man could do, so far beyond what Eliot could figure out, and then he’d turn that big smile on him, slow down just a little bit, just enough to snipe and tease and snark without missing a beat. His smile was sweet and warm and Eliot could spend all day just trying to make him smile and laugh. Eliot could snap and growl all he wanted and Hardison saw right past it, and with anyone else, it’d make Eliot feel exposed and scraped raw, but with Hardison? He just felt...he didn’t trust Hardison to understand everything he sees, not by a longshot (and he was so, so grateful for that, that nothing had pulled Hardison that far down) but he did trust him to take care of whatever it was he found.

And Parker...if Hardison was magnetic, drawing him in, Parker was a spark he was trying so hard to follow. She was fast, whipcord smart, and just as likely to leave him in the dust with how she jumped from thought to thought to plan to design. She moved like he did—completely in control of her body and it was amazing to watch, even when she was relaxed and easy and moving just because she wanted to, because it was  _ fun _ . She was also so damn curious it hurt sometimes, but he’d never deny her a story or an explanation if she asked for one, and the way her eyes lit up each and every time took his breath away sometimes. Her eyes didn’t miss anything, and he should be worried, should be shying away from that much focus on him, because what Hardison didn’t understand? She did, or, at least, more of it, even if she couldn’t quite articulate it sometimes. But, he trusted her to hide that away, keep it locked up with her own secrets.

Logically, he could see it—could see himself falling, slowly. Had been, probably since that first week of coffee. And he wouldn’t begrudge himself  _ that _ . He liked them.  _ That  _ wasn’t the problem, so why should he try to stamp out the bit of fluttering, the stupid smiles, the want to see  _ them  _ smile their ridiculous grins? That wasn’t what was making his heart twist and tangle when he thought about it.

No,  _ that _ was the too sharp, too real twist of realizing that not only was he too late (again), but that he was never in the running, not this time. They weren’t for him. Too clearly for each other, with one foot too clearly out the door (out of his life).

They weren’t for him.

They were together (as they should be).

They were going to be leaving (sooner rather than later).

Simple as that. And sure, something in his chest ached just a little bit at that—at that bitter echo going round and round in his head for a moment there. But, he still couldn’t deny that seeing them together? Almost enough to drown that out completely anyway.

Nothing on his end...really needed to change, he realized, fist digging into the heavy bag hard enough to send it swinging. He’d never expected anything to come his way from them—not really. He just liked being around them, being able to be with them in whatever way they’d let him. And as long as he kept to that? They wouldn’t pick up on anything different (he’d eat his own tongue before he purposely made things awkward between them for something like this, swear on his mama), they could continue being their ridiculously cute selves, and there’d be no bother.

And, soon, they’d be safe, and they’d leave, and he’d have fond memories he’d keep close, and a heart just a little more bruised, but no more worse for wear than normal.

That’s really all there is to it.


	11. Chapter 11

_ Eliot_

 

Yeah. So.

That really wasn’t all there was to it.

Of course not. He still stuck to his plan of changing absolutely nothing about his behaviour. Breakfast and dinner most days, afternoons spent at their house… Really the only thing that actively changed was that now he made sure to take nights every couple of days for himself—dancing, his gym, working on the house, whatever. They didn’t change at all, outside of painfully sweet kisses that they kept to a minimum around him (embarrassment or politeness, hard to tell), and having more and more silent conversations around him.

It should set his teeth on edge, but he figured, since they never showed any signs of being upset or hiding something, that it was just a thing they were going to do now and to leave it alone.

(If he had ever sat down to figure out how many things they did that would drive him up the wall if literally anyone else did them, he was pretty sure the next revelation really wouldn’t have been such a shock to his system. Go figure.)

In his defense, it was going well. Really. He made it a good two weeks after putting himself in order. Everything stayed easy and he’d been bordering closer to content than he had in a long, long time. It was  _ nice  _ to watch them get more comfortable with each other every day—or those nights when  _ something  _ was clearly off as they found their footing, only to know, the next morning, that they’d worked it out after he left, seeing the evidence in bright smiles and loose shoulders.

Far as he could tell, they weren’t reading anything they shouldn’t into his behaviour, and that ache in his chest that had set up shop was getting easier to ignore every day. He knew it likely wouldn’t go  _ away  _ for a long time yet—when he fell, he fell hard, he could own up to that—but it also wasn’t clouding anything he was doing.

He still enjoyed listening to Hardison’s rants, winding him up just for the hell of it (and that moment, every time, when Hardison realized exactly what he was doing and got back at him spectacularly). Still enjoyed being Parker’s go-to jungle gym or stealth practice when he made dinner. Still enjoyed cooking for these two young, bright, too-smart for their own good walking disasters who couldn’t figure out a stove (oh, he knew they were playing it up for his sake. They weren’t  _ that  _ slick. But, it worked out for everyone involved, so he saw no reason to stop them).

Everything was  _ fine _ .

And then Shelley showed up. And, God. He loved his friend. The man was a brother in all but blood—though at this point, Eliot was pretty sure they’d both bled enough over the other that it was just a technicality at best.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want to strangle him pretty regularly.

* * *

Eliot was not expecting much that morning. The chill in the morning air drove them all inside again, and at this point Eliot was pretty sure they’d had their last morning outdoors for awhile—hell, they were supposed to get some early flurries next week—and Hardison and Parker were quiet and sleepy around the edges in a way that meant neither had gotten much sleep last night.

He’d vaguely tossed out the idea that he’d be sticking around his place tonight—get a start on painting the living room or something. If either of them caught that he’d said the exact same thing last week, well. Neither called him on it.

Then he’d seen Megs at the porch door, ears perked up and holding still.

Could have meant anything. Squirrel running across the porch. Birds flying by. Particularly shiny car coming down the road. He just noticed that one particularly plank of wood on the porch was  _ fascinating _ (wouldn’t be the first time).

Or, someone coming up the driveway.

No barking meant he was inclined to believe the latter.

And maybe he was a little too paranoid sometimes. He got that. Understood he could tone it down, more often than not, out here.

But, at the same time? The only two people he kind of gave a shit about that  _ would  _ be coming up his driveway were currently sitting in his kitchen arguing the merits of manual and electronic locks. The McElroys always called if they needed anything. Same with his other neighbors—even if he’d only heard from them every once in a damn blue moon.

So, he grabbed his coffee mug, kept his walk loose and easy and slipped over to Megs. Both Hardison and Parker could read him way too easy, and drawing attention to what likely would end up being nothing was not how he wanted to start the morning. He saw Parker following his movement for a moment, but he must’ve been doing a decent job at playing calm, because in the next breath she was back to arguing that “we can both agree both are solved by explosives, right?” Which Hardison seemed ready to accept. There was a story behind that, and he’d definitely need to ask about it later.

There was definitely someone walking up his driveway though. The morning light was still thin and grey this early, casting everything in long shadows and muddy colors that didn’t want to focus—and his eyesight was not what it used to be (and he really needed to get a new pair of glasses. His last pair had busted...six or seven months ago. ...which he hadn’t actually realized it had been that long, huh).

But. He didn’t need to see a face to recognize that walk. It set off a low thrum of alarm in the back of his mind—comforting, in its own way—at the same time he rolled his eyes. Bastard couldn’t even  _ call _ .

He gently patted Megs’ ears before digging out his phone to shoot off a “door’s open” text, and then heading back to the kitchen to get another mug of coffee and a plate set up.

Calm. Collected. Mind absolutely not going a mile a minute trying to figure out how to explain Hardison and Parker in his house.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t  _ told  _ Shelley he’d made some new...friends. It was just that...no, nope, that was exactly it. He hadn’t said a word about them. And, true, they only talked every couple of weeks, it could’ve slid by easily. But. Shelley also knew him like the back of his own goddamn hand and there was nothing more annoying than a fully grown man, trained to kill in so many different ways it would make most people’s heads spin, lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree when he found something new to tease his friend over.

(And he could grumble and groan all he damn wanted. But it was nice seeing Shelley stateside again without someone on their ass. Or waving a gun around. Or explosions in the background. He was pretty sure the sentimentality was either an age thing or strictly the fault of the two sitting at his bar right now.)

The man didn’t even bother knocking, simply walked right in, only to pause for a second, blinking both at the unlocked door and then the people in the kitchen. Two of which were blinking right back at him while Eliot just rolled his eyes and shoved the plate and coffee onto the other end of the bar.

“Shut the door before Megs goes running,” he grumbled despite them all knowing full well Megs wasn’t going anywhere. There were three of his favorite people in the room right now.

(Eliot should probably be miffed that he was clearly the fourth favorite here, but he couldn’t blame the damn dog.)

Megs did however pretty much bowl into Shelley’s legs before he actually could close the door. Bastard just ended up laughing and dropping down to greet him properly. “At least you’re happy to see me, mutt.”

“Only ‘cause he remembers who pulled him out of that gutter. Nevermind he only spent twenty-four hours with you and three years with me.”

“He remembers the important things!” Shelley shot back, grinning and standing again after a moment, kicking the door shut behind him. “So, who’re the two elephants in the room?” Parker snorted out a laugh—good sign at least—while Hardison was still stuck on the blinking like an owl at all of them stage.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Parker, Hardison, this is Shelley—your other neighbor. Supposedly. Man, have you ever even stepped foot in that house?”

Shelley snorted, sidling up to the bar to grab the mug of coffee, eyeing the pancakes with an air of suspicion that Eliot, frankly, found insulting. Then he turned a look on Eliot that encompassed ‘really?’ way too well. But Eliot refused to look away, and absolutely refused to be embarrassed about it, and Shelley ended up shrugging after a moment. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He turned to get a look at the other two before smiling that easy, charming grin that Eliot’s pretty sure he practiced in front of a mirror.

Neither looked impressed, though Hardison was at least smiling politely. Parker was outright staring at him, head tilted in a way that told Eliot he should probably warn Shelley to keep an eye on his pockets. Probably wouldn’t though.

(And maybe he shouldn’t enjoy the fact that Shelley was the first to break eye contact.)

“Nah. Would like to know why you couldn’t call though. Last I heard,” from Shelley himself, “you weren’t due back for another three months.” Eliot returned, rolling a shoulder. And even with that break, Shelly would maybe be back a week. If that.

“Yeah, well, had some unexpected downtime.” Job either failed or cancelled then. “Figured I’d stop by, say hi, all that. Probably should’ve stopped by sooner.” The significant look he threw Hardison and Parker was completely unnecessary, alright.

“Nah. Get enough of your ugly mug as it is. When you heading out again?” 

And there was that razor sharp smile, all too real. “Depends. Got a couple things I need to look into, ‘fore I head out again.” 

Eliot paused, blinking slowly. Maybe hiding behind his coffee mug for a moment to avoid the looks Hardison and Parker immediately trained on him.

“You’re the one Eliot goes out of town with?” Parker chirped, after a quiet, thin moment. Eliot frowned slightly at the too-chipper tone—it didn’t sound like Parker at all. Hardison was side-eyeing her too, but wasn’t interjecting. So, he was curious too. Great. Shelley looked thrown at least, tilting his head Eliot’s way.

Well. Not like they didn’t already know. Eliot shrugged a shoulder, going to get more coffee.

“...definitely should’ve come by sooner.” But the smile he turned on them was still sharp, still real, which at least got Hardison to loosen up slightly (Eliot might need to talk with him about self-preservation instincts. But it was probably a lost cause at this point). “We make a helluva team, what can I say?” And it wasn’t like he exclusively worked with Shelley—he wasn’t the only one Eliot owed favors to, not by a long shot. But, Shelley knew what to look for in a job, knew when to call Eliot and when to call literally anyone else. Eliot couldn’t say he minded limiting most of the jobs he took to those passed through his friend’s hands. Even if said friend gave him weird looks every time he talked about settling down, finishing the house, moving on.

Whatever.

Parker didn’t look completely satisfied with the answer, though Eliot couldn’t imagine why. But, she seemed to realize that was probably all she was going to get about it.

(For now. He definitely caught the look she shot him out of the corner of her eyes.)

“...Megs was yours?” Less chipper, less fake, at least. More curious. More Parker. Shelley blinked at the question, then at the dog.

“Nah. Found the mutt when I was out in DC.” Polite way of putting it at least. “Someone must’ve dropped the fluffball in a box or something, dunno. By the time I found him, poor thing was a mess behind a dumpster. Wasn’t too bright then either. For example, ran right up to me.” Eliot snorted. And only just managed to pull his coffee away in time. “Felt bad for him and all. And my friend over here had just moved into this big ol’ house all on his own. Figured he could use the company.”

“You know, most people would consider calling then, too. Instead of just dropping the dog off when I wasn’t home and then leaving. The ‘there’s a surprise in the house’ text was  _ not  _ comforting.”

“Aw, come on. Like you would’ve said no.”

“He ate my couch.”

“Only the arm. He was like eight pounds at that point. How much damage could he have done?” Hardison was watching the whole conversation with a way too open expression that Eliot couldn’t actually read, while Parker seemed to have come around to having Shelley in her general vicinity and had gone back to inhaling her pancakes.

“...who the hell names a dog Megan?” is Hardison’s question, the first he had spoken since the damn door opened.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Which is exactly what Shelley had said when Eliot had asked the same question three years ago. Well, at least he was consistent.

“Weren’t you concussed?” Eliot couldn’t help but add, smirking at the eye roll that gets him, only to mimic it when Shelley held up his hand for a ‘little bit’ gesture. It at least got Hardison to snort on a laugh, finally settling down enough to go back to eating himself, and Shelley shot Eliot a self-satisfied smirk as soon as he was sure the other two weren't looking.

Jokes on him, Parker was pretty much always looking, but at least she just rolled her eyes.

“So. Eliot’s told me absolutely nothing about you. And apparently, he’s told you nothing about me. How did you three meet?” If Eliot could’ve gotten away with thunking his head on the counter, he would’ve. So quickly.

“Uh. We moved in next door?” Hardison offered when it becomes clear Parker was too invested in her pancakes to bother. “So, nice to meet you neighbor?” The grin he gave was cheeky, bright, and Eliot couldn’t help but smile himself at it. Just a bit.

“You two bought that old house?”

“Not exactly. Parker’s aunt owns it. Letting us borrow is for a bit.” Eliot didn’t quite frown, but it was a close thing, and didn’t bother saying anything. It was up to them what to share.

“Huh. How long you two staying then?”

Hardison shrugged, easy as anything, “Dunno yet. Until we’re ready to head home.” It was a small thing. Hell, it took a good long moment for Eliot to even pinpoint just why his stomach suddenly dropped to his feet like a rock.

_ Home _ .

It wasn’t a surprise. Eliot definitely remembered covering that when he’d talked himself up two weeks ago. They were leaving. Were always going to. He  _ knew  _ that.

Apparently, that hadn’t actually sunk in then.

It was definitely sinking in now.

He knew Parker caught onto...something—maybe his expression, maybe his stance, maybe it was just Parker being Parker—because he could  _ feel  _ her eyes on him, intent and piercing. And he  _ promised  _ he wouldn’t fuck this up. So, plaster on a smile, roll out a shoulder, and shove more pancakes at her.

She was giving him a pass, and they both knew it, when she narrowed her eyes at him but focused on the plate anyway. Hardison at least didn’t seem to notice anything (maybe, Eliot couldn’t actually tell what he picked up sometimes). He was a strong man, but he doubted he had much ground to stand on between the two of them anymore—especially since everything was just a shade off kilter right now. He couldn’t stand up to them at his best, he was pretty sure, let alone like this.

There was a weighted silence that settled over all of them at that point—Eliot felt heavy and wrong-footed, Shelley was awkwardly poking at his plate, and Hardison and Parker were having another silent conversation, involving a lot of eyebrows and significant looks.

“Well, you two probably want to catch up, right? We’ll leave you two be. Nice to meet you though, Shelley,” Hardison’s smile was warm, real, despite the awkward and obvious exit, and the ache in his chest that he’d been so sure he’d been ignoring so well, flared up, but Eliot can’t tell if he wants to smile or scowl. “Come over with Eliot sometime—we got plenty of room. Wouldn’t mind getting to know our other neighbor.” And Eliot pointedly ignored Shelley’s look at that.

“If I’m around long enough, count on it.” Shelley held out a hand for Hardison to shake, which he took, easy as anything, before Parker and him were slipping out the front door, shutting the door too quietly behind them. Regardless, the click of the latch echoed, far louder than Eliot’s pretty sure it was supposed to.

Eliot was not running away when he immediately turned to washing dishes, putting his back to Shelley. Definitely not.

Shelley was kind enough to give him a couple quiet minutes at least, the only sound being Megs’ whining at being ignored, the scrape of a sponge against ceramic, and running water.

“So.” Shelley started.

“That’s what you’re opening with? Really?” It wasn't a snap, but it was close. Eliot was grasping at straws and they both knew it.

“I’ve known you for fifteen years. You wanna know the only other time you made me breakfast?”

“I only figured my way around an oven five years ago. And I see you every couple of months. At most. Except that year you were in Brazil.” Which Eliot wasn’t supposed to know about officially, but hey.

“Point still stands.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“You gonna answer my question?”

“Was there one worth my attention in there?”

“Right after you moved in. And it was burnt.” Eliot snorted, smiling just barely despite himself. That might’ve been both a thank you and a fuck you for dropping off Megs. He loved Megs. He did. But he’d liked that couch too, dammit.

“You know this wasn’t for you, right? You just happened to show up at the right time.” Shelley raised an eyebrow at him, fighting back a smirk and Eliot took a moment to go over what he had just said. Dammit. “And it’s nothing.”

“Wow.” Eliot frowned, glancing back over his shoulder. “You can’t even lie about it.”

Brandishing the spatula was not his finest moment, he’d admit. But Shelley did lean back a bit, hands coming up. Because he was smart, sometimes, and he’d seen what Eliot could do with innocuous kitchen implements.

But. But, he was right. And, to be honest, he was still wrong-footed and heavy in the worst way, and he just didn’t have the energy to defend it really.

“So, how long’ve they been here?” Eliot glared at him, but since Shelley’d long since lost most of his survival instinct (or, maybe he was just born an adrenaline junkie. By the time they’d met when they were 19 going on too damn old and whatever damage there’d been had already been done, so Eliot didn’t really know).

“Four months and some change,” is Eliot’s clipped answer. Not that that deters him at all.

“Huh. And they’re together?”

“Glad to know your eyesight’s still good.”

“Always both of ‘em?”

Eliot’s answering grunt was about as eloquent a response as he was going to get on that.

“Of course always both. ‘Cause you can’t do anything by halves.” Yeah, but he didn’t have to point it out. And maybe it was petty of Eliot to snag his coffee mug from his hands before he was done. But you know what, if he was going to be in this uncomfortable conversation, Shelley could be uncomfortable too. “...and you’ve already convinced yourself you’re totally fine, right? And just realized you ain’t.”

“You going somewhere with this?” His voice came out rougher than he’d like, but it was out there and he couldn’t really do much about it now, except glare, and dare Shelley to say one goddamn word about it.

“...wanna go punch the feelings away?”

And it was only been a month since he took a job. Normally, it took three or four (if he was lucky) before he was feeling the itch to move, to get out, to hit something hard enough to rattle his bones and settle his head, to get  _ something _ useful done. The nerves running across his skin now weren’t the same thing, but it was close enough that Eliot didn’t think about it like he probably should. “When?”

And Shelley grinned, and Eliot knew he hadn’t heard the end of this, but for now, they’re good. “In two days. Wasn’t lying about the downtime, even if it’s short. But don’t worry, I’ll stay out of the way.” The cheeky grin only got larger when Eliot glared at him.

“Uh-huh. I’m not bailing you out again while you’re here. I know you think cops just like you or whatever, but the ones around here don’t know me. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Oh please. When have you ever bailed me out—”

“Are we counting breaking out too? And chronological or order of fucked up?”

“—when you weren’t at least a bit responsible for the mess in the first place?”

“Los Angeles. Dubai too if that was a yes to the breaking out. Ain’t my fault you can’t run anyway.”

“Okay, no, Los Angeles was  _ not  _ my fault. And Dubai was  _ definitely _ yours.” But Shelley was smirking, and they both knew the steps in this argument, both knew the give and take, and Eliot fell into it all too easy, too eager for the out to get as worked up as he usually would.

* * *

“You know. Got a favor to ask actually.”

“Name it.”

“Just keep an eye out while you’re around. Lemme know if anyone’s coming around, looks a little too like us.”

“You gonna tell me why?”

“Maybe.”

“Right now?”

“Nope.”

* * *

 

_ Hardison _

 

Hardison couldn’t say he was expecting to see Eliot that night. When he’d shuffled them out, as gracefully as he could at that moment (so, not very, but still, points for effort and all that), he’d been expecting Eliot to keep to his original call of cancelling dinner that night, take a night for him and his  _ friend _ .

And wow that sounded bitter even in his own head. Chill for a moment there.

Was he actually bitter that Eliot had another friend besides them? Hell, one they even knew about. Vaguely, anyway.

No. No, he wasn’t. It had been great, watching Eliot with Shelley, for all the other man carried himself too...well, too much like Eliot when he’d met Nate, that first time. Too fluid, too subtle and quick, half a shade too focused. It was unnerving.

But Eliot’s small smile had been sharp and bright ( _ dangerous as hell _ , his brain supplied), to match Shelley’s, and Hardison had never seen that smile, and for all that he knew that if he ever had that look focused on him he should probably go running for the hills, it had looked so  _ natural _ and  _ good _ , that Hardison knew he wouldn’t move an inch.

(And at least he hadn’t needed to test it, at the time. That smile had been all for Shelley.)

Eliot  _ was  _ dangerous. He knew Parker and him maybe…kind of forgot that, sometimes. Him probably more. He knew she was learning from him how to defend herself, some mornings (and the occasional impromptu lessons in the living room. As long as they didn’t break the coffee table, Hardison didn’t see a reason to tell them to stop. Coffee table was definitely what he was watching too. Absolutely), so she got reminders far more often.

But it was so easy to forget, when he was curled up on their couch, fluffy dog in his lap, book in hand. Or when he was grumping about their grocery list (or lack thereof) and taking over their kitchen. Or when he let Parker climb all over him, poke at him, and generally invade his space, moving so easily to accommodate her. Or, hell, when he was sitting on the arm of the couch, asking Hardison what the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek was just to get a rise out of him, doing his noble best not to laugh the whole time (Hardison finally,  _ finally  _ got him to admit he’d seen  _ Return of the Jedi _ as a kid. He was steadfast about not having seen the others though, and Hardison didn’t have enough proof to call him on it. Yet).

Eliot, around them, was rough around the edges, but unobtrusive about it—easy to sidle up against, press into and rest against. Expressive eyes, gentle hands, rumbling voice, and a shape that bent to them, around them, fitting into whatever space was between and around them.

Eliot, around Nate, around Shelley, was clean-edged. Too sanded down to grab a hold of and get a good look at. Too focused and clear-eyed to see behind. Whipcrack tone and no bend to him, because a bend would mean he could break—easier to stand his ground and simply refuse.

What Hardison had thought had been a defensive front for Nate, he was just now seeing was just...another side to Eliot.

(It should not be as attractive an idea as it is.)

...what had started this again?

Oh, right. Shelley and Eliot. Hardison wasn’t bitter about  _ that _ . He wasn’t even sure if  _ bitter _ was the right word. It was just. There was history there. That was easy to tell. (And, vaguely, he’d known that without ever meeting the man. That photo that had long since disappeared from Eliot’s hall had proven that they’d known each other for a long, long time). Eliot hadn’t even tripped when he’d switched, not this time. One second he’d been smiling that quiet little thing that was mostly in his eyes, and the next, he’d been sniping with Shelley, razor thin smirk sitting easy to match the other man’s. That alone would’ve convinced Hardison that they’d seen plenty together, without everything else.

And just the fact that Eliot  _ did  _ actually have friends was a relief, let’s be honest here.

So. History there. That Hardison knew well enough that he’d probably never understand, not completely. And that was fine. Great even. Everyone needed a friend like that.

So what was tripping him up?

...what was it he’d said? ‘Got a couple things I need to look into, ‘fore I head out again.’

Ding ding. That was it. Hardison couldn’t help the wince at that, feeling like a kid again, with Nana staring him down while he clutched one of his comic books to his chest after snatching it from one of the older kids.

(She hadn’t made him share, not then. He’d only just moved in, and she  _ got  _ it. Got why he didn’t want to share, not just yet. But he still remembered the look. Probably always would.)

Shelley had swooped in out of nowhere and was planning on taking Eliot with him when he left.

Which was still a stupid thing, all things considered, for Hardison to get upset about. The last times Eliot had gone out, he’d been gone for three days. Tops. He wasn’t snatching Eliot away from them forever.

...and, he quickly reminded himself, if Eliot  _ wanted  _ to go, Hardison had absolutely no claim to keep him here. It was Eliot’s life.

(Didn’t make him feel any less sick to his stomach about the idea.)

It probably didn’t help that he had a better idea of what Eliot was actually doing on his trips out of town now. They hadn’t asked directly. But, there had been hints, here and there. He wasn’t looking to add any more blood to his past—had actively stressed that, in the one conversation that got as close as they’d ever to the topic—but he was also one of the best at what he did, so.

He  _ knew  _ Eliot could take care of himself—his record proved that just fine, even if Hardison couldn’t see it in everything else Eliot did. But the man was disappearing off the face of the earth, halfway across the world (though Hardison didn’t think it’d be any better if he stayed in the damn state), with someone at his side that was just as dangerous, which told Hardison all he needed to know about the kind of resistance they were probably going against.

Overall, it wasn’t doing anything to help his anxiety about the situation.

And then. And then on top of  _ all  _ of that. There had been that awkward silence before he’d gotten them out. Parker had been trying to tell him what had happened, but all he’d had to work on was that he’d said something, and caught the tail end of a shuttered expression on Eliot’s face before he was plastering on a smile so fake it made Hardison’s teeth hurt and pushing more food at Parker.

He didn’t know what had caused it, still. But he had a sinking feeling it had been something he’d said.

“Parker?” he asked, glancing up to where he’d last seen her, fiddling with her phone or something or other. There had been something in her hands that had had her attention anyway. But apparently not all of it, because she dropped next to him (literally. He wished she wouldn’t do that without warning sometimes) on the couch before he could even finish her name.

“Eliot’s going away again soon, right? Do you think that’s what was going on this morning?” she asked back, eyes trained on him. She looked...worried, but not panicky about it. So probably the same level of low-key anxiety he had. Good to know at least.

“I dunno. He seemed fine? Until those last couple of moments. Did you notice anything?” He shifted on the couch, pulling a leg up so he could face her fully. She immediately shifted into his space, leaning against his leg with most of her weight. In the last two weeks, she’d been about 50/50 on how often she’d actively seek out contact with him, little bit more if he was the one slotting in next to her to touch, and he soaked up whatever closeness she wanted to give him every single time. He couldn’t help but relax is the point, taking her weight and watching her face as she went through what she’d seen that morning.

“...what did you say? Right before?” Just because he was relaxed didn’t mean his stomach couldn’t still sink. It was...an uncomfortable feeling to say the least.

“Didn’t know how long we were staying. Until we were ready to head home?” Hardison answered, voice small. His stomach sanks, just that little bit further, when she glanced up to meet his eyes after a moment. And she clearly saw that he was already feeling guilty, even if he didn’t quite get why, not yet, because she winced. (But, she wasn't about to sugarcoat it either, and he couldn’t help but be thankful for it.)

“ _ This  _ isn’t home. Not to us. But...to him?” She didn’t sound entirely sure, not quite. Which, considering all their living situations up until relatively recently, was fair. But.

But.

Going at it like that? Hardison had basically stated point blank that this was temporary. Throwing it in Eliot’s face wasn’t a fair description, because that implied aim. Intent. But it was out there. Said out loud for the first time in...a long time, Hardison realized, looking back on the past couple of weeks.

Sure, Hardison would rant to Eliot about not being able to find much information on who was hunting them. But it was always just that. He was looking for them, looking for who had sent them running. He never really...went beyond that. What would happen when they found them. When this was all over.

And sure, it was  _ known _ . Had been since they’d moved in. Even more so since they’d come clean. But there was a solid, weighted difference between something implicitly known and something explicitly said.

There were a couple things Hardison could take from this (and neither made his stomach feel good).

He’d just point blank told their friend—their very close friend, who spent most of his time around them and who seemed as eager to be in their space as they were to be in his—that their leaving was something that would happen at the drop of a hat. Even if he  _ knew  _ it was more complicated than that, that was definitely what it had sounded like.

Or he just told someone who, just maybe, felt a little more than friendly to them (they  _ knew  _ that too. Had since he and Parker had talked about them, even if it had been agreed at the time to talk about Eliot  _ later _ ), that, without fail, they were going to leave. Again. Implicit versus explicit. Just because he had known from the start that they weren’t staying didn’t mean their leaving was going to hurt any less. And throwing it out there...not Hardison’s best moment.

Gentle, but firm lips on his, in a chaste, lightning-quick kiss, broke him out of his thoughts, leaving him blinking at a very close Parker. She was eyeing his face, eyes flitting here and there, brow scrunched up and eyes big and worried and he made himself smile, for her, for him, them. Leaned in and returned the soft peck, easy as anything.

That was new. For all that, sure, they’d kissed before all this turned out like it did, it had seemed like now that it  _ meant  _ something, that it was something tangible that both of them could sink their fingers into, there had been a hesitancy to kissing. Hardison didn’t know if it was because Parker was worried how it would be received, now that she was  _ aware  _ of how it  _ could  _ be taken, or if it just hadn’t been something that had occurred to her. And, honestly, Hardison hadn’t minded in the least.

Then. Then, a week ago, she’d dropped out of the rafters and waited for a moment to get his attention before stealing his breath in a warm press of lips that, for all that it lacked the tactile fizziness of their ‘pretend’ kisses, had more than made up for that in its all-encompassing intensity. It had been a shock, honestly. Not quite like kissing a live-wire, like he’d thought (many times) it might be, but like...static build up, feeling that energy across his skin before right it broke in sharp crackles. This didn’t burst, didn’t snap into a sting. Just built, all soft and slow, before she was stepping back, smiling at him, just a shadow unsure, but refusing to move out of his space.

(He’d had to kiss her again, right then, because for all that this was new for both of them—new territory, new angles, new expectations, new  _ everything _ —the last thing he ever wanted was for her to think he didn’t want any part of whatever she wanted to give him.  _ That  _ kiss had ended in a bubbly laugh, bringing back that fizziness he already knew he’d never get enough of. The whispered “good morning” in the small space between them when they finally broke apart had just sent them both laughing again and Hardison had never felt so high up. Like he’d never wanted to come down.)

Since then, she’d seem to realize that a kiss was all it really took to get him out of his own head. He couldn’t really say he was complaining.

“Okay. Okay, so. We agreed, right? Eliot was…”

“Like pretzels,” she finished for him, a small smile at the reference. “And we never really  _ agreed _ . You said that was up to him.” Which, yeah, he had. And that had pushed everything to  _ later _ , where he (they) hadn’t really had to deal with it at the time.

And to be honest, it would probably be so much better, for all of them, if that was still  _ later _ . When him and Parker had more time for them, more time to figure out what they’d want out of Eliot, what they could offer the man in return. Where they saw this going, where he could reasonably be expected to go with them. But, well.

They were going to be leaving. And though Hardison and Parker were both torn between wanting it to happen as soon as possible and maybe sticking around just a little bit longer (he knew they both were. They’d talked about it, earlier that week, around three in the morning when neither had been keen on sleeping, or all that interested in elaborating  _ why _ . Because  _ later _ ) the idea of leaving things with Eliot without...acknowledging that  _ something  _ was there. Just. Didn’t sit right in his stomach. Especially not if Eliot knew there was something there too.

But neither did dropping a...a bomb like that on him, since they  _ were  _ going to leave. That wasn’t changing. Their lives weren’t out here. Nate and Sophie, the team, the  _ job _ . That was their lives. Would be, hopefully, for years to come, once they got out of this mess.

It also wasn’t fair of them to reach any kind of conclusion without Eliot. If they were right, and Eliot  _ was  _ like pretzels, he deserved to have the chance to talk to them about it. Reach some kind of conclusion they could all agree on (but probably none of them like). Even if it was just a prelude to goodbye.

Closure.

Or something.

The idea sat, heavy and inexorable in his chest, but, at the same time he...really, really wanted something with Eliot. Anything they could get. And he didn’t want this tension, this dark cloud between them that could apparently spring up at the slightest moment, to cloud what time they had left.

(Maybe it was selfish of him. Only time would tell.)

“We’re going to have to talk to him again, huh?” Parker asked, voice low. She didn’t sound put off by the idea at least. Maybe a little wary, but he also recognized the glint in her eyes—she wasn't looking for a way out. Just trying to find a way through.

“Yeah. Definitely. But...well. Shouldn’t we figure out what  _ we _ ”—the gesture between the two of them didn’t cover that concept nearly well enough, but she seemed to get it—“think about it first?”

She tilted her head, eyeing him for a long, quiet moment. “We like him here,” she said, echoing her original reaction to Sophie pointing out that maybe, just maybe, something else was going on here, so he nodded. “Anyway he can be here.” And at that he smiles.

It wouldn’t be that easy (of course not), but they were on the same page, at least. Any way they could have Eliot, they wanted.

He realized, somewhere in there, that maybe he should be worried about a couple things. Being greedy was the first that popped to mind. An amazing woman had already decided to give him her time, her attention, why was he running after someone else? There was also the fact that maybe some jealousy should’ve popped up by now, especially after hearing Parker put it so plainly that she wanted someone else, too.

But, honestly?

There wasn’t a blip of either, not right now at least. Why would it be greedy to want that kind of attention, that kind of care from more than one person, if they were willing to give it, if someone was willing to share? And why would he be jealous if someone he cared about was getting the kind of appreciation they deserved, regardless of who it was from? 

Maybe. Maybe if he didn’t want Eliot too, couldn’t see himself fitting up against Eliot’s side as easily as he could see Parker, maybe there’d be different reactions here. And maybe, in time, his feelings on the matter, or hers, would change. They could address them then.

First. First, they had to see if Eliot wanted anything to do with them.

* * *

He’d not been expecting to see Eliot that night. And yet, there was a soft knock at their door, later that evening, before he was slipping in with three pizza boxes in hand a sheepish smile (as if he ever had to apologize for changing his mind).

There was an expectation there, hanging heavy in air, as they all settled down to watch some movie Parker had been wanting to see.

Hardison, if asked, would’ve said he’d thought it’d be tense, uncomfortable. Looking at Eliot, knowing that they needed to talk about something that cut so close—remembering how every other conversation like that between them had cut them all to the quick. Knowing that Eliot definitely knew something was up (eyes too sharp to not).

But, oddly enough, despite Eliot opting for the floor that night, letting Parker thread her fingers through his hair with only a soft, completely ignored grumble because they all knew better by now (and, there, there was a little bit of jealousy, because he wanted to do that too. But, watching them like that was nice enough that he figured he could wait a little longer, push that jealousy into hope that this would pan out and maybe, just maybe, he could do the same soon), and the heavy quiet blanketing them, nothing was set to break. To crack and spill and cut.

They all knew something was coming. But it wasn’t something for tonight.

Soon though. Very soon.


	12. Chapter 12

_Parker_

 

Eliot confirmed what they already knew that morning. He’d be leaving for a job, in two days. And he wanted a day to catch up with Shelley, so when he left that night, they likely wouldn’t really see him again until Saturday. Sunday if his flights didn’t work out nicely.

And it was fine. He told them easily, refusing to hide, but still apologizing, in some small way, with a self-conscious smile and a request to watch Megs again—to which they’d of course readily agreed.

He didn’t tell them where he was going. What he was doing.

Parker knew she hid her own anxiety well. Hardison, less so. But Eliot seemed to read it differently—as what, she didn’t know—and didn’t push. 

Something in her stomach went fuzzy, that morning they watched his truck peel out of the driveway, Shelley waving to them from the passenger seat.

(She’s pretty sure she could like Shelley. Probably would, eventually. If, next time, he didn’t come by just to whisk Eliot away.)

Parker was still fuzzy around the edges, two days later.

She spent an hour—maybe two. From where she was sitting on the roof, with the night thick and cold around her, moon a heavy pendent in the sky, it was hard to tell time—just. Mad.

Mad at Shelley for taking Eliot away.

Mad at Eliot for going so easily.

Mad at Hardison for not saying anything when they had the chance.

But that wasn’t  _ right _ . So, she was out on the roof, by herself, so she could figure it out without snapping at someone who didn’t deserve it.

It took her a little while, sitting out there, letting the cold seep into her bones, cut through the noise in her head, to figure out where her emotions are pulling her without her permission. She was jealous of Shelley—how easy Eliot had changed around him, how easily Eliot had agreed with him. She was scared for Eliot—they had a better idea of what he did now, and all she could think of was him, limping in their kitchen, insisting he was fine while hiding bruises and a crash. She was angry at herself for not asking Hardison  _ when  _ they were going to talk to Eliot—getting a plan set and figured out calmed her down, but she’d let that fly blind, and the chance had slipped from their fingers.

And all of  _ that _ wasn’t even most of what was fuzzing under her skin, chasing her up to the sky, making everything sharper, harder to swallow.

No, this had been building for awhile. And everything else hitting at this point? Just tipped something over, spilled it over inside her, painted her insides with oil and wrong.

It was easier to ignore. When Eliot was here. When Hardison was griping about a game or a movie. When they were just outside her reach, but always on her mind, safe and sound and laughing and happy. When Megs was a happy fluff ball, heavy on her stomach and legs when they cuddled on the couch, just listening to the boys chatter and bicker in the kitchen.

Now though, Hardison was back at his computers—a pinch to his eyes and a dark set to his mouth telling her how well that was going. Eliot was gone, possibly only to come back hurt and different than either her or Hardison could grasp.

And here she was. On the roof. In the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere.While someone hunted them down like dogs. While Hardison evaded and ducked and found the fragile undercarriage no one ever thought to cover, not from his clever mind. While Nate and Sophie were half a world away, hunting the hunters like only they could, confident in their invisibility, invincible in their presence.

While she did nothing.

There was no plan for her out here. Nothing she could run and catch. Nothing she could unlock. Nothing she could snatch and hide away. No way she could  _ help _ .

They’d been out here for four months and two weeks and she had done  _ nothing _ .

And even with the wide-open sky stretching out above her, clear and inky and stark, going on forever, she felt trapped by that nothing. Heavy and stifled and stuck. She couldn’t help Hardison, or Eliot, or Nate and Sophie. Couldn’t do  _ anything _ out here but wait. Wait for something good to happen (that may not). Wait for Nate and Sophie to call them home (which may be a phone call that never came). Wait for hard eyes and heavy hands to track them down (and wipe them out).

With no plan, with nothing to anchor her focus to, to plan for, there was nothing for her.

She  _ hated  _ it.

And what made it worse wasn’t that she couldn’t tell anyone. She knew for a fact she could spill all the thoughts in her head right now, as disjointed and racing as they were, and Hardison...Hardison would  _ listen _ . He’d hear every word, and, like as not, he’d  _ get  _ it.

He’d let her curl close, cling to his shirt, bury her face against his chest, hide for awhile. He’d let her yell and work it out at her own pace before collapsing against him again. He wouldn’t hold her down, but he’d hold her close.

And he’d blame himself.

That too big heart would hear all of this, and his own frustration at being unable to bring them  _ home _ , to make them  _ safe _ , would leak through, whether he wanted it to or not.  _ He  _ had made their home, back in Boston. Had from the first day, had brought them together, given them a place all their own. And she knew being away from it was killing him as much as it was killing her (and there was a little voice in the back of her head pointing out that, if she were calmer, she’d remember that as much as the circumstances were awful, there was a bright spot, one that left her happy and warm and so, so grateful, but, she couldn’t hear it right now).

She didn’t want to hurt him anymore. Not when he was already struggling too.

(Not when he was actually working on getting them back.)

* * *

She didn’t know how long she sat out there—the sky had been dark when she’d slipped out, the moon at one end of the valley, and it was now hanging heavy towards the middle. Figuring out on which side it would fall back to earth would take too much energy—before she heard the window behind her gently slide open.

She didn’t turn around. Knew that that soft look she could feel on her back would be too much to wrap her hands around to smother.

She also didn’t hear anyone join her on the roof.

“Can I come out?” It was soft. Gentle. Undemanding. He’d leave her be, if she wanted him to. He’d let her work this out on her own. Let her come back to him.

_ No. _

“Yes.” Just as soft, a little more cracked at the edges.

There was what sounded like, to her trained ears, an awkward shuffling as he hauled his lanky frame through the window. But he managed it without cursing, without slipping, without hurting himself, so she stayed facing forward. Let him come to her.

He didn’t touch. Just settled down beside her, knees pulled to his chest, right in her peripheral vision.

What she thought would be suffocating, if she’d hunted him down earlier, was instead...grounding. He wasn’t going to trap her, wasn’t going to keep her still. But there was an anchor if she wanted it.

She did.

So, she leaned over, pressed herself to his side, wrapped her arms around his, trapping it to her chest and resting her head on his shoulder. He let her move him, easy as anything, but stayed solid at her side. Pulling her back down to earth.

The breath she took filled her lungs with chilled air, and for the first time in hours, she didn’t feel quite so stuck.

* * *

They didn’t talk, not right then.

Not until Hardison had been shivering but stubbornly refusing to move until Parker was ready. So, Parker fibbed—and they both knew it—and said she wanted to go inside, voice barely above a whisper.

They ended up on the couch, carefully stretched out, Hardison on his back, Parker on his chest with her head tucked under his chin. One of his arms was around her waist, holding her close without demanding she be closer, the other was hanging down to the floor, buried in Megs’ fur. Leaving an out for her, if she needed it.

She wouldn’t.

She didn’t spill everything that had been going on in her head—that was too much, too heavy for the air between them to hold right now—but. She tried. Tried to give him an explanation. And he listened, like she knew he would.

Listened to her work out that she wasn’t  _ mad  _ at anyone except herself. That she thought she could like Shelley, for how he made Eliot smile. That she was worried about Eliot, wanted him  _ here _ (unvoiced, but heard all the same, wanted him  _ home _ ). That she wanted a plan to focus on, for her and Hardison and Eliot, so that jumping again so soon wouldn’t be quite so terrifying.

That she wanted to be able to do something rather than just  _ wait _ for them to win or to fail.

It was quiet for a long set of minutes after that last one scraped out of her throat, raw and just a little bit scared. She felt hollowed out. Empty and weightless. Hardison’s arm keeping her from floating away. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it wasn’t unpleasant either. It just  _ was _ .

There was a ghost of a kiss to her hair.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry we’re stuck out here, and I’m sorry we can’t go back yet.” His voice was scratchy, low. So damn apologetic. And she didn’t want to hear that. It wasn't his fault.

So, she pushed herself up, just enough to press a kiss to his mouth, to stop the apologies, to stop dragging him down with her. And he squeaked slightly, and maybe it was less a kiss and more a hard press of lips. An argument and a plea all in one.

When he relaxed again, she pulled away, looked at him directly for the first time that night. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. It’s a bad situation for all of us and I’m going stir-crazy and I want us to go home, but don’t you apologize when you’re working so hard to get us there.” And he blinked at her, but he nodded, a small, wonder-filled smile tilting up the corners of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, thin but real, back and settled back down, her head tucked under his chin.

There was silence again, but it was easier now. Lighter.

Then, “You know. I couldn’t do this. Without you here, I mean.” And she didn’t say anything to that, because of course he could. Hardison could do anything,  _ would  _ do anything if it meant getting them home, getting them safe. “You know how often I hit a wall, can’t follow a trail because they destroyed everything I’d made, and I’m working from scratch here, working so many angles I forget half of them most of the time, and I look over and. You’re always right there. Your rigs. That padlock you fiddle with—you left it in the fridge by the way. Cereal bowl in the sink. Or actually here. Poking at Eliot. Flipping through channels so fast I still don’t know how you catch anything. Wandering in and out, through the roof and the door. And suddenly, it’s not so hard to go back. Figure out what went wrong. Where I can go from there. Because it’s not just me here. Not just me needing to get out of this mess. I’ve got someone relying on me to get her back to the first home she’s had in so long, and I can’t let her down.” It’s all said so low, pulled from his chest in a way that she knew, if she weren’t pressed so close, she would’ve missed almost all of it.

“I know this is hard. I’m not saying it isn’t, that it won’t continue to be for a little while. But, Parker,” she almost didn’t recognize her own name, so soft and gently he murmurs it, “I can’t lose you right now, okay? I can’t. _We_ are so close to figuring this out, to finding that lead that’ll take us home. And then you’ll get to do what you do best and I can go back to opening the doors for you, keeping your path clear. Both of us wondering if Nate’s off his rocker but following him anyway because he hasn’t steered us wrong yet. Listening to Sophie try to keep us all together and on point.”

And that. That sounded good.

It was missing something. And she knew, from the hitch in his voice, that he knew that too.

But that was for  _ later _ . For  _ now, _ all of that sounded like exactly what she needed.

And if they could get there, by Parker sticking to Hardison’s side, keeping his head clear and his hands steady? Be there for him, like he always was for her?

Yeah. She could do that.

* * *

 

_ Hardison _

 

Hardison woke with a crick in his neck, a weight on his chest, a mouthful of hair, and his phone buzzing obnoxiously on the coffee table—no, wait, it was on the floor now.

Parker was dead weight on top of him, still asleep. A look out the window showed it couldn’t have been more than two hours since they’d fallen asleep. At most.

He’d brought her in from the roof around three in the morning. The sky beyond the window, from what he could see, was only just now bruising to purple with the coming dawn.

So if this was Nate calling, he was going to be very, very upset.

Somehow, he managed to reach his phone without displacing Parker, or bugging Megs too much, though it was tricky, and he might well have pulled his shoulder doing it.

The number wasn’t one he recognized. Not that that meant much. Nate and Sophie were using any number of stolen and prepaid phones, and didn’t always keep him as up to date on the numbers as he’d like. So, he answered, stifling a yawn.

He didn’t get a chance to offer a hello or ask who the hell this is (and, when he’s more awake, later, he’ll want to smack himself for answering the damn phone like that, without figuring out where the caller was, seeing if he could get a name, because, hello, wanted man by two very scary, very powerful groups. Answering a strange number was  _ not  _ a good idea). Luck was on his side though. It was Shelley.

“Okay, so Eliot will actually try to murder me”—he’s laughing, but Hardison’s pretty sure he’s not joking—“but figured you’d want to know. We made it back stateside, and I bullied him into an emergency room—he’s fine by the way. Just a little banged up, and I didn’t want him bleeding all over the truck.”

And there are so, so many questions his now too-awake brain was trying to comb through to even answer for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he croaked and he didn’t even think he blinked, but Parker was staring up at him, eyes clear and bright as if she hadn’t just been dead to the world. “Thanks for. For letting us know.”

“Oh, it ain’t just that. Got a favor to ask. I’ve got a quick turnaround, get moving out of here soon as possible. Think you could come pick him up?”

Parker was off his chest and disappearing down the hall in the next blink. To change most likely. Megs was picking up on the sudden tension in the air, ears pressed back, whining low. He only settled again when Hardison reached down to gently scratch between his ears. “Give me an address, we’ll be there.” He didn’t have to see the man to hear the grin in his voice, and something in Hardison unclenches, just a little, because smiling means nothing’s really bad and he was just playing calm.

(He hoped.)

They get the address, and the hospital’s only an hour and a half drive away, if they’re careful to stick to the highways and stay out of the way of the cops. Easy enough.

Shelley didn’t even say bye—there’s just dead air as soon as the address is given—and Hardison was left to go change himself, Parker already coming back out of the hall in new clothes, looking awake as ever. He tossed her the keys and his phone on his way past. “Five minutes.” She nodded, frowning, worried but willing herself not to panic because she’d heard Shelley’s tone too, and this didn’t sound  _ awful. _ Just. Unpleasant.

Parker droves. And they must be blessed or something, because they didn’t need to slow down once, no cops sitting on the road at this time of day apparently. They get there in an hour.

Shelley was perched outside on a bench, fiddling with his phone. Didn’t even look up until they’re almost on top of him. And he smiled, razor sharp with too much teeth, and despite what little self-preservation instinct Hardison had left sitting up and paying attention, he felt his shoulders give a bit, because that smile was real. So he hadn’t been lying. Eliot was fine.

“...man, how’d you even get my number?” It wasn’t what he wanted to ask. Not even close. He was pretty sure it was the only question that’d get a straight answer, though.

Shelley snorted and dug another phone out of his pocket, tossing it over. “He’s gonna want that back. They should be releasing him in”—quick glance at his phone—“fifteen minutes? And he’d probably be fine to drive, but that’s how he popped his damn stitches in the first place, so, you know.” He shrugged a shoulder, fluid and too easy, and Hardison rolled his eyes. As much as this is  _ not  _ funny,  _ not  _ okay, that...does sound exactly like something Eliot would do, if he thinks about it.

“Thanks for letting us know,” Parker said, stiff but earnest, and Hardison remembered her saying something about thinking she could like Shelley, eventually. This probably helped.

Shelley blinked at her, then glanced between them, eyes going hard in the early morning light for a moment. Hardison would take a step back, if it wasn’t gone just as fast as it’d appeared. Instead, they got a smile that was all teeth again.

“I can only take him out so often, you know? Even with guys like us, he hits a little too hard, when something’s hurt.” And the smile didn’t falter in the least, and Hardison knows two things: one, regardless of how anything goes down, Eliot wouldn’t let Shelley near them if he thought he was actually a danger; and two, there was no way Eliot would ever hear of this conversation, and Shelley was counting on it.

So, he smiled back, “Thanks again, man.” And Shelley blinked at them again, then laughed and pushed himself to his feet, taking Hardison’s hand for all of a second.

“See you two soon, hopefully. Keep an eye on him for me?” He didn’t wait for a nod, just wandered off down the sidewalk. Around the corner and he’s gone.

He shared a bewildered look with Parker, before they’re both shaking their heads and heading for the doors. It wasn’t worth it to figure out everything in that conversation right now. They got the important part.

This early in the morning, this far out in the suburbs, the emergency room wasn’t even close to full—a handful of people were waiting their turn without stressing too much (visibly anyway). No nurses running around in their immediate vicinity (if Hardison listened closely, he could hear more energy and action down the hall, but it was far enough away that it zoned right out).

They let the nurse at the front desk know they’re waiting for a friend to be released, don’t worry about them. She gave them a funny look, then a smile, and left them be, so Hardison was going to call that a win.

Eliot came through the doors not ten minutes later, clearly on a warpath, scowling and grumbling, shoving his hair back roughly and only catching sight of them right before he actually makes it to the door.

The cheeky wave they both gave him was maybe a little much, but hey. He blinked at them, then again. Then dragged a hand down his face (though Hardison can see the quirk of a smile behind his hand) and headed over. “Rat bastard called you did he? That mean you have my phone?” Hardison snorted, grinning and handing it over.

“He said you popped your stitches driving, so we’ve been drafted to get you home.” And he knew his tone was questioning, knew the look Parker was shooting Eliot was asking the exact same questions. But they wouldn’t ask out loud, not here. Not with the nurse and other patients watching them curiously (they’re the loudest thing in the room right now, can’t really blame them).

Eliot huffed slightly, shifting his weight back—like he did when he was uncomfortable, Hardison knew. He took a moment to actually take a look at the man, scan him over for whatever dragged him here in the first place.

There was a butterfly bandage above his eyebrow, a purpling bruise around it and an already impressive black eye under it. Eliot was in short enough sleeves that the bandaging around his bicep was obvious despite the sleeve covering part of it. Hardison was also willing to bet there was a matching one around his midsection, given how the shirt was riding up.

But Eliot was steady on his feet. Clear eyed. Fighting back a smile.

He was okay.

They needed to talk—now more than ever—but he was okay.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Megs missed you like hell.”  _ And so did we. _

Eliot’s expression softened, just that little bit, and he nodded. He fell into step behind them easily and Hardison’s relieved to note he wasn’t limping or otherwise dragging.

(Eliot may be okay, but Hardison’s pretty sure he was going to be hyper-aware until that bruise went away at least.)

The drive home was quiet, the early morning excitement catching up with all of them. Parker drove them back, slowly, more careful. Not trusting the roads to stay clear as sunlight chased them down highway. There was no rush anyway.

Eliot didn’t question when they herded him into their house. Just dropped on the couch with a soft groan, finally letting himself look as tired as Hardison had started to suspect he was.

“So. Those two the only stitches we should be worried about?” Hardison asked, sitting down beside him after grabbing a glass of water to offer over.

Eliot rolled his eyes, but took the water with a murmur Hardison thought might be a ‘thanks.’ “I’m fine, alright? The stitches were overkill.”

“Uh-huh. Wanna talk about it?” Hardison asked as nonchalantly as he can manage. Which was apparently, not at all, if the look Eliot sent him was anything to go by. So he smiled instead. Bright and easy and completely innocent. Eliot snorted.

“Got too close to the wrong end of a knife. And it was  _ fine  _ on the flight home. And it was  _ fine  _ in the car.”

“Shelley said you popped your stitches driving.”

“Yeah, and Shelley needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

And god, Hardison missed him.


	13. Chapter 13

_Eliot_

 

Hardison and Parker were getting jumpy. And Eliot was pretty sure it was about him.

And he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to get them like that.

And if this kept up, something was going to snap. His nerves, their feelings, or the chain holding the heavy bag in the basement. Didn’t much matter which.

It had been three weeks since they’d picked him up from the hospital (and mother henned him to the point that when he’d thrown his hands up and stormed out, they’d had the good grace to actually look contrite. And then they’d shown up the next morning, and he knew without a doubt that it was just something he was going to have to deal with. His initial tantrum aside, he was surprisingly okay with it. Not that he’d let them know that. Ever).

And at first, outside of some wary attempts at questioning and weird moments, everything had been fine. As soon as it was clear that he wasn’t going to pop his stitches again, they fell right back into their stupidly (wonderfully) domestic routine. Like Eliot’s little trip up at breakfast hadn’t happened. Like Shelley hadn’t swooped in like a tornado. Like the ache in his chest hadn’t threatened to ruin everything, just for a bit there.

It’s not like they were...waiting for him to catch on, or anything. Just. Silent conversations behind his back. Quickly hushed actual conversations when he came through the door. Significant looks they thought he wouldn’t catch.

So maybe he took one or two more nights for himself. They didn’t call him on it. He wasn’t even sure they noticed, or just didn’t want to say anything. Not that it much mattered.

He didn’t feel like going out dancing, not really. So, more often than not, he ended up in his basement or out at his gym (suddenly very, very grateful that it was a twenty-four hour place).

It was a night like that—too-heavy looks that have started to get a worried tinge to them, like they’re waiting on  _ something _ , it’s just not  _ him _ —when he begged off dinner, ignoring the hollow beneath his sternum, grabbed his gym bag and headed out. Tuesday nights weren’t exactly busy in the first place, and by the time midnight was rolling around, he was the only person in the gym, the owner (nice kid, apparently got the place from his dad, absolutely adored it, treated it and the people that came by right), tucked away in a back office that Eliot was pretty much certain doubled as a second home for him.

The only sounds were the steady thump and rattle of the bag. No music here (he’d figured out pretty quick that the kid tended to nap on the overnight shifts. The front door was locked, a bell required to get in this late, so Eliot figured it didn’t hurt anything to let him sleep). Just a steady rhythm he created, kept to. Breathed through. Moved with.

His phone buzzing in his bag, behind and to his left, didn’t trip up his feet, didn’t send his swing wide. But it did break his attention, pull it away long enough for him to catch the bag as it swung back. Acknowledge his burning lungs, the sweat clinging to his shirt, the hair in his face.

He was aching at this point, in a way that was telling him he’d finally worked out whatever knots had been in his back all week. Had finally worked through whatever was coiling, tense in his stomach and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

(And that, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to have hell to pay in the morning.)

His phone buzzed again, pulling him out of his head again. This time, long enough to go actually see who the hell was bugging him. Hardison and Parker tended to leave him alone on his nights away (not that he would’ve minded hearing from them but—nope, not right now.)

It was from Shelley, two short texts. “About that favor.” And an address. One he knows. Nothing special about the place—it was as close to a dive bar they had in that little town. Close enough to the hotels that it had tried to class itself up recently, local enough that they had stopped caring about half-way through.

Something to check on in the morning then.

He gathered up his bag. Rang the bell at the front and waved to the security camera before slipping out to his truck and heading home.

Something heavy is curling in his gut—thankfully not ruining the work he put in tonight, but it was a small blessing at best—and he didn’t really want to think about what it said about him, that that weight is comforting. Grounding. Focusing.

* * *

He begged off breakfast the next morning. And dinner. And they don’t question. But he could hear the heavy silence over the phone, and he hung up before he could think better of it. Before he could hear something he really didn't want to in that silence.

* * *

It’d be kind of...sad, how easy it was to pick them out.

If it wasn’t a gut punch.

Four guys. Heads down, sticking close. Keeping their questions subtle, sticking to the edges. Blending in with the tourists coming into town with the chill.

The bar was where they ended up in the evenings apparently. Hoping for looser tongues, or just genuinely liking the feel of the place, Eliot couldn’t tell.

But, they did answer a question for him.

They were never after him. The two from the grocery store. The two at the gas station. Who knew how many others that slipped by and into the wind with nothing concrete to take back.

More of them though—more direct questions, guys that looked like they were planning on sticking around...they had  _ something _ . Or at least they thought they did.

One, at one point, flashed a badge. Eliot hadn’t been at the right angle to see what kind (to see how good the fake was), but it had been enough to get a couple people taking a closer look at the photos he’d flashed. It was straight luck that the guy seemed to be sticking to tourists, newcomers. None of whom had seen those mugshots. Hopefully never would.

(For once, he was so, so grateful that Hardison and Parker couldn’t be bothered to come into town all that often, if at all.)

Eliot knew it wouldn’t last though. They stuck around, kept flashing those photos, kept getting people  _ looking _ , and at some point, someone would recognize them. Vaguely, maybe not enough to put them on the exact right path. But close. Way too close.

You didn’t send guys like this—heavy boots, too-slick smiles, busted knuckles, hard eyes—to pick someone up. To take them somewhere for an elaborate plot. No, these were who you sent to clean house.

(And maybe his own hands ached, watching their hands, echoes of old scars and clear memories. But he ruthlessly shoved that away. He’d gotten  _ out  _ dammit.)

He didn’t have even half a plan, when he approached the first guy, that night in the bar.

Bar fight was as good a result as any.

He managed to get out with a cut to his hairline, a twinging knee, and a bit of blood on his knuckles. His guy...well, Eliot can say he enjoyed the look on the guy’s face when the cops hauled him out, no doubt counting up whatever warrants were going to be tripped as soon as he was booked with the others that were hauled away. Worked out rather well for having no plan, really. It also told him all he needed to know about the other three. No one stepping up, flashing that shiny badge in their partner’s defense, meant they were working together by necessity, not choice.

They were probably looking forward to splitting the pay three ways instead of four now.

* * *

Eliot should probably tell Hardison and Parker something. It stuck in his throat though, trapped behind his teeth.  _ You’re in danger here. Whoever you pissed off that you still won’t tell me about, they’re getting closer, too close. You should leave. Find a new place to hide. _

If he were a better man, he’d probably tell them.

If it escalated past what he could handle, he’d definitely tell them.

They question his hands. The cut only half hidden by his hair. He smiled and stood a little straighter.  _ Something _ passed between them, set his teeth on edge, made the ache in his chest ring just a little bit, but they backed off, let it drop, easy as anything.

They’re not pleased when he canceled dinner again. But they also don’t fight it. Don’t argue or push, no matter how fast he’d bend for it. (They’ve got to know that. That he would, if they asked. But they don’t.)

After this, he’ll tell them.

* * *

The next three were easy enough, if a little less. Heavy-handed.

Ain’t his fault two of them trusted the side alleys in a small town—the third had stumbled back to their hotel about an hour ago now.

It netted him a shallow gash up his arm and bruised ribs. But they went down, hard. And Eliot couldn’t pull the hospital trick again—they’d just wander back to find their partner.

But it was ridiculously easy to make a couple calls from their phones—one local, two with numbers he’d long since memorized, hadn’t thought he’d need again, but couldn’t get rid of without a good number more hits to the head—and when he lurked around their table at the bar the next night, accusations started flying with the alcohol. Bidding for a better contract without him. Possible federal tip off. Sheriff coming around his hotel last night.

Missing wallets weren’t even brought up.

It was enough to spook them, at least.

He didn’t see them the next night, or the one after.

He wouldn’t really relax, he knew, until they stayed gone for awhile. But it was something.

And the bartender was a sweet woman, friendly face he’d met when he’d first moved in. Promised to keep an eye out for them—they weren’t too keen on tipping or keeping to themselves it seemed. She’d let him know if they came back around so soon.

It wasn’t the end of it. Not by a longshot.

But by the time he made it home that night, that heavy weight that had curled around his gut when he’d gotten Shelley’s tip-off has started to dissipate, just a little bit.

* * *

Three days. That was what he bought them.

He didn’t even know why they were in town—yeah, no, he can’t even think that lie through. Parker had asked, so hopeful he had no choice, for something a little weird for dinner. Not weird enough for him to say no, but definitely requiring a grocery run. (Her look had been enough to have him saying yes even before she asked, big eyes looking so damn hurt that he knew she’d noticed him pulling away and was trying to  _ fix _ it, and he didn’t know how to tell her that he’d like to find out how too.)

And then they’d invited themselves along. Easy as that.

So they were at the grocery store, he was fending off items that would better belong to a college student’s pantry than anything he would willinging cook these two outside of dire straits, and feeling  _ normal  _ for the first time in  _ weeks _ , watching these two heartbreaks light up when he sniped and snarked, watching them beam when he growled and emptied out the cart of whatever junk they managed to sneak in.

They were just heading to the front to check out—where he knew they’d get weird about money again, and he’d steamroll over it, like before, and they’ll go hom—back, and he’d make dinner, and maybe, just maybe, everything would settle back into place.

The three men walking in the front dash that hope against rocks Eliot hadn’t even seen (even though he should’ve).

They carried themselves better than the four roughnecks from before. Nicer suits, neater hands, smiles that reached their eyes. Better hidden guns. Walking together like a unit. It didn’t matter what alphabet agency (and they practically reeked of ex-government types), they’d once come from, they’d come from it together.

Parker and Hardison didn’t see the newcomers, not at first.

But they saw him freeze.

“Emergency exit. Behind me to the left. Truck’s gonna be on the right when you get out, four rows up.” Voice low, lips barely moving. And, bless them, they didn’t turn to look, they didn’t question what the hell he was talking about, and they didn’t panic. They nodded, eyes finding the exit.

He’d barely tilted his head and they were gone.

* * *

 

_ Hardison _

 

He’d like to say he wasn’t panicking. But that’d be a damn lie, and wouldn’t change a thing happening right now so. He was panicking. But he was also running, Parker just ahead of him as they went out the door, the alarm attached to it blaring up immediately.

They were on course for the truck, almost there, when he heard the door bang open behind them. It was a half turn and a skid, and he just barely kept his feet, but he turned around to get a look—to check for Eliot.

And maybe he should’ve questioned running on the man’s word out of nowhere.

But in a blink, their Eliot had slipped away, gone hard and clean-cut and fluid, eyes dark and cold and staring past them, and it hadn’t even occurred to Hardison (or Parker, it seemed) to question it.

It was Eliot that’d bolted out the door—two, no, three men on his heels. And he wasn’theading for the truck, like him and Parker were (now, ducking behind another car), but around the back of the store. Away from them, Hardison realized.

And they should definitely take the out. Get the hell out of here. Figure out how fast they can get out of the state.

(Figure out how the hell they got so  _ close _ .)

But he didn’t need to look to know Parker was right beside him as he started off after them. He didn’t even have a clue what he was going to do when he got there, just knew that he  _ couldn’t  _ just leave Eliot. No matter what Eliot probably wanted them to do.

By the time they got there, one of the men was on the ground, out cold. And Eliot.

Eliot.

Hardison couldn’t follow everything that was happening, not even close. But he knew, without a doubt, that Eliot was going to be just fine.

It wasn’t elegant—it was too heavy, too focused and driven for that. But Eliot took every hit they manage to land, moved with it, threw it back in their faces (including once, literally, and Hardison had to wince at the snap of bone he heard and the bloom of blood going down the guy’s face in the next second). Eliot didn’t dodge, didn’t dance away and swipe back in. He just took, and took, didn’t trip up, didn’t shift from where he’d decided to move.

It was only a matter of time (and, Hardison will realize later, that it took almost none at all), before the second guy went down when his head met concrete. The third was barely keeping up anymore, wouldn’t last lon—when the hell did Parker move over there and what the hell—

The third man went stiff as she jabbed something into the small of his back. It took Hardison a second to connect the dots—the yelp, the immediate twitching, the sluggish drop, sped up with a helping elbow to the temple from Eliot—with Parker’s favorite taser.

He hadn’t even known she was carrying it.

And then it was done. And quiet.

And they needed to get out of here. Now.

Eliot gave them a brief once-over, eyes still hard and dark, moving like he’s about to jump into the next fight, before ducking down to rifle through their pockets. Wallets and phones are tossed to him and Parker before he moved past them, waving them forward after taking a look around the corner.

They were in the truck in the next minute. Dead silent the entire drive back. Eliot pulled into their driveway without a word and Hardison wanted so badly to pull him close, to see the painful line of his shoulders and back to bend again. But he kept his hands to himself. Took the wallets and phones when they were handed to him with a nod.

As soon as he was inside, he was at his computers, getting to work.

It was easy to tune out everything from there.

(Eliot sitting stiffly on the couch, texting someone, refusing to settle back down, even here. Parker trying to figure out how to ask if she can help with his split knuckles and lip or if he’s hurt more severely than he’s let on. Eliot shutting her down, gently but firmly.)

* * *

It was so, so easy to trace back from what they pulled off the men. And tip off the FBI. Who were, oddly enough, already in the area, with a report that Hardison’s pretty sure if he looked too close at would just make this whole thing that much worse. So, he didn’t.

But. He knew where the Italian was—Germany, for now.

He had enough to know where to toss out lines, trails for them to follow. It wasn’t as elegant as anything he could do with his full setup before they’d done their very best to erase everything he’d built. But it would buy them time. And give him a chance to keep an eye on them now. Wait for them to trip up. Give him something either he could use himself or could give to Nate.

(Nate, who’d been trying to call for the last...he didn’t know how long actually. Only that he’d seen a thin hand out of the corner of his eyes grabbing his buzzing phone off the desk beside him awhile ago and hadn’t heard from it since.)

When he surfaced again—really surfaced, deep breaths and everything—it was dark out. Had been for hours.

Eliot was still on the couch. But his hands were clean—scraped raw and red but clean—and his split lip had long since stopped bleeding. He was also wearing what Hardison was pretty sure were his clothes. Sweats that pool at his feet, a shirt that fits his shoulders but strains around his chest. His hair was damp, curling slightly. Megs was at his feet, curled up and quiet.

Parker was nowhere to be seen.

Before that could make him panic though, there was a rough, gravelly voice breaking the quiet, “She’s out on the roof. Checking in every fifteen minutes.” Hardison blinked, then nodded a thanks with what he knew was a sad excuse of a smile.

Eliot didn’t return it.

In fact, if it weren’t for the change in clothes and the dog, Hardison could probably be convinced that Eliot hadn’t moved a muscle since he sat down.

“...looking at you actually hurts.” And as soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say because he didn’t mean it like  _ that _ . Eliot rolled his shoulders, still too sanded down to actually flinch, but Hardison may as well have slapped him, his eyes going to the ground. “And that. That was not what I meant. At all. Oh god. Okay, no, I meant, you need to relax. Loosen up.  _ Something  _ before you snap because my back hurts just looking at yours.”

And it was too quiet for a moment.

“Pretty sure that’s from sitting there for six hours. Your posture’s terrible, man.” And Hardison breathed out a sigh of full-on relief.

Eliot didn’t relax. But his shoulders slumped, lost some of their steel. He looked back up, met Hardison’s eyes. And there was a ghost of a smile in them, and Hardison couldn’t help but smile back.

* * *

Eliot barely let him ask what was going on before he was telling him everything. From the two guys at the grocery store, months ago. To the two on the highway barely over a month ago. To the four this last week. And how was going to tell them. He was.

He didn’t say why he didn’t. But he won’t look Hardison in the eye, won’t look up at Parker (who had reappeared in the rafters at some point. Hardison didn’t know when, but since she hadn’t asked him to repeat everything, he had to assume since the start), and his arms were wrapped loosely around his stomach in a tell Hardison doesn’t think he’s perfectly aware of.

He was  _ scared _ , or as close as Eliot ever got _.  _ Of what...well, Hardison had a few guesses.

When he was done, he went quiet. Waited for them to fill the silence.

Parker was the first one to speak.

“Nate wanted to know if we were okay. Said we were. Sophie said to call her tomorrow or face hell. Then Nate said, if we can, to sit tight. He’s found someone. Or she found him. Through McRory’s. He’s meeting her tomorrow.” And Hardison blinked at that, working that over in his tired mind.

A client. And if Nate was listening? This could be the break they were looking for.

A goddamn miracle, more like.

If it panned out.

(It was too goddamned convenient. Knew it was. Was too tired to care.)

But. Sitting tight. They could do that.

“I’ve got enough to have them chasing their tails for awhile yet.” For the Italian anyway. Moreau was still a very real, unknown threat. But.

He’d only  _ just  _ recently gotten through Moto’s tangle, found a sliver of a connection to the man. Not nearly enough to send them running around too, if they were even around.

He glanced at Eliot.

“...we could use some help?” He kept his tone soft, questioning and easy to shake off, because he had no right to ask this. So, demanding nothing, asking little. From how quick Eliot sat up and nods, like he hadn’t just been curled in on himself, doing his best to disappear into the couch, he probably needn’t have bothered.

Okay.

Okay. They could do this.

He turned back to his computers long enough to wrap up what he could to send to Nate and Sophie before shutting everything down but the basics that are always running anyway. His eyes were starting to swim, and the adrenaline rush that had sustained him through the last six, seven hours, was crashing hard.

The other two looked just as exhausted as he felt.

“Okay. Talk in the morning?”  _ Be here in the morning? Don’t leave? _

Eliot rolled a shoulder, shifting to stretch out along the couch, facing the door. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Parker stayed long enough to nod at him before disappearing down the hall.

He puttered around long enough to get Eliot a blanket and a pillow, plus a couple blankets to make a bed for Megs if he wanted.

Puttered around long enough, trying to figure out how to say thank you.

“Eliot…” his voice was thick, though with which of the tumult of emotions flaring in his chest, Hardison wasn’t sure he could tell himself.

“Go to bed, Hardison,” was the rumbled response, and Hardison knew. They were going to be okay. One way or another. For now. So, he went down the hall, slipped into his room. Didn’t comment on Parker in his bed. Just pulled her close, waited until she folded herself against him, fell asleep between one breath and the next. Slept so, so easy, knowing Eliot was out in the living room, standing guard for the night.


	14. Chapter 14

_Hardison_

 

The morning found Eliot still there. Hardison hadn’t realized he’d...not expected. Feared, maybe, that he wouldn’t be.

But, he was there, flitting around their kitchen. Easy in their space like he always was.

(Besides the last three weeks.)

Hardison didn’t know what he was making, only that it smelled good, and his stomach rumbled rather loudly. Maybe he should be embarrassed. But, it was Eliot’s cooking. That was just to be expected.

(And if the sight of Eliot in Hardison’s clothes, barefoot and easy in their kitchen was doing something funny and complicated to his insides, well. He could pretend it was just because he’s hungry.)

(Heard it as soon as he thought it. That was not what he meant.)

Parker was still in bed—not asleep, but taking the time to think in the early morning light. He’d given her a kiss good morning, gotten a smile, and left her to it. She’d be up soon, lured out by whatever Eliot made for breakfast. Megs was curled up on the couch.

And Eliot was in his kitchen, looking more at ease, more settled (less _hunted_ ), than he had in _weeks_.

If everything wasn’t slowly crashing down around their ears, Hardison could very easily picture this as an ideal morning. One he’d definitely like to repeat. A lot.

But. That required a conversation.

One he wasn’t. Entirely sure how to approach, after everything that had happened yesterday. After Nate had given them a possible end date on all of this, so much closer than they’d thought.

But. He also knew, if they didn’t talk to him, now...they weren’t going to get another chance, not likely anyway. And he still deserved to _know_ . Regardless of how this all turned out. Let him decide what to do with _all_ of the information.

...sounded great in his head. Just had to say it now.

Parker shuffled into the kitchen a couple moments later, pulling herself up onto the counter, her usual spot. Eliot shot her a soft smile and Hardison realized two things in that moment.

One. Eliot wasn’t what he’d been sort of, kind of, mentally calling _their_ Eliot. But he was also not...not like he was yesterday. He was back to being rough around the edges, leaving them space to move around him, easy as they ever have. But the way he was moving, it was too much like he was still walking off that fight. Waiting for another. He looked _good_.

Two. If they didn’t tell him, now, there was no maybe about it. They wouldn’t get another chance. He’d fall too hard one way or another, trying to pull back into himself, be their rough and tumble neighbor of a friend, or the worn-down, precise soldier who’d carry them through this mess and then...walk away. Shift and slide between sides like he did when he went with Shelley, like when he came home after.

He didn’t know what the look he sent Parker’s way gots interpreted as. But she nodded. So he hoped it came across.

“Eliot? Can we. Can we talk?” Hardison asked, feeling awkward and clumsy, but the bright smile Parker sent him was a good sign.

Eliot paused for a breath before glancing over his shoulder, giving him a look that saw way too much, probably. But he didn’t tense. Didn’t bolt. Looked a little wary. Maybe. But that was it. “Breakfast’s almost done. That okay?” And that was fine. That was great. So he nodded. Smiled easy. Melted a little when he got one back, before Eliot was turning back to the stove and Parker was giving him a thumbs up.

(And Hardison was getting just the slightest sense of déjà vu.)

* * *

Breakfast was something with eggs and cheese and vegetables but it wasn’t an omelette and Hardison didn’t care what it was because it tasted amazing.

They didn’t talk during breakfast. Parker and Hardison too busy stuffing their faces, Eliot just rolling his eyes at them. Then there were dishes. Letting Megs out and then making sure he was fed.

Then they were in the living room, Parker and Hardison on the couch, Eliot sitting crosslegged on the floor between them, back against the coffee table. It was a weird set up, if Hardison were to think about it. But, Eliot picked it, so Hardison was not about to argue.

And then silence settles, thick and cloying, and everything Hardison had been running through his head to say went right out the window. And Eliot had this wounded look in his eyes (one that, Hardison realizes with a pang, he could only identify so easily because he’d definitely seen it before, these last couple of weeks), but he wouldn’t break the silence. And he shouldn’t have to.

Parker caught his hand (Eliot following the movement, and that look getting worse, and that was not how this was supposed to go). He squeezed, curled their fingers together and took a deep breath.

“We’re sorry.” It wasn’t what he was expecting to say. Not what Eliot was expecting to hear. But…“We went about this the complete wrong way. We were going to talk to you, before all of...this. Before you got more caught up in this mess. And then we couldn’t figure out a right time, and apparently you picked up on that, and possibly read it as something it definitely wasn’t,” and as he was saying it, he was figuring it out. Why Eliot’d been pulling back these last couple of weeks. Why he’d been taking more nights and mornings away from them. Why that wounded look was too familiar.

They hadn’t meant to put him in the middle like that. But everytime one of them had wanted to say something, the other had realized it just wasn’t a good time. And apparently they’d beaten that to death.

“And this is coming at probably the worst time, after last night but, uh.” And this should be the easy part. All of Eliot’s focus is on them, less wounded. More curious. Possibly hopeful.

“...we might be having feelings for you. Weird, nice feelings. Have for awhile. And we’d really like if you had feelings for us too.” Well. Simple, effective. He squeezes Parker’s hand, offered a small smile that she returned immediately before turning her attention back to Eliot.

Who was kind of just blinking at them.

Well. Not the worst reaction.

Definitely not the best one though.

(Hardison was getting pretty sick of heavy silences by this point.)

But, then. Then. Eliot was laughing. It wasn’t loud, or blustering. Just that soft rumble that Hardison loved and was pretty sure Parker did too. He scrubbed a hand down his face, pinning them both with a bright look. So bright, it took Hardison a moment to recognize the pinch to his eyes. And something sank, low in his stomach. Taking his heart with it.

“Of course I do. Didn’t think I was hiding it _that_ well.” Soft, barely loud enough to cross the insignificant space between them. Hardison could practically hear the ‘but’ coming. “But. This ain’t your home.” _You’re leaving_.

It wasn’t an accusation. He didn’t sound bitter. Resigned maybe.

This wasn’t news to him. He’d known where he stood on all of this for...who knew how long now. Worked it all out. Decided not to, with the looming end date. And that was completely fair. That was within his right. Hardison wouldn’t deny him that.

But.

And the idea was in his head and out of his mouth before he could really think it through, think through the consequences (so, so many).

“Wasn’t kidding when I said we could use some help.” He saw Parker perk up in the corner of his eyes, catching on. Eliot though, just looked confused.

(At least the pinched look was gone. Thrown for a loop it seemed.)

“I ain’t gonna leave just ‘cause we can’t…” He started, trailed off, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to see where Hardison was going with this.

“If Nate’s lead pans out, that’s the start of a job, not the end of it. We could…” Stop. Think. “You could come with us? Help, until this is done.” _Give us more time. More time to figure this out, more time to figure_ something _out._ And Eliot caught up, eyes going wide, the rest of him going still.

God, it was so quiet. All of them barely breathing, let alone moving or speaking or…

Parker’s hand had a death grip on his, her eyes bright and focused on Eliot. Hardison was doing his best not to give into his nerves’ desire to start babbling, to take it back, to salvage this, bring it back from _too much, too quick_. But he didn’t. Eliot could tell them no—probably should. Any sane person would.

“...you’re gonna have to actually tell me what you’re up against then, you realize.” His voice was thin, breathy. Nervous. And it took a couple seconds for what he said to actually filter through. And by the time it did, Eliot was talking again, “and I’m not promising to stay.” It sounded forced out. Making himself back off, just a bit. Back up to a place where he could look at this from a good distance (which they all should be doing). “My home is here.” And Hardison could only nod—wouldn’t ask so much, needed him to know he wouldn’t. Needed him to know _they_ wouldn’t. He eyed them both, eyes intense, searching.

Finding something he could trust, if the way he lost all the fight in him, smiled soft, mostly in his eyes, up at them, was anything to go by. “Okay.” So, so soft. Just loud enough to fill the space between them. Agreeing to so much more than having their backs in a fight he was only just started to see.

Parker was the one who moved first, practically flinging herself at him, and if it weren’t for the coffee table, Hardison was pretty sure he’d be flat on his back. But he just laughed, rough and choked now, arms looping around her to hug her close. She must have  asked something, too quiet for Hardison to hear, because then Eliot was blinking, flushing just barely, and nodding. And Parker was pulling back, eyeing him for a long moment—waiting for a smile, Hardison realizes—before she’s leaning back in to press a kiss to his mouth. Firm and chaste, he took a second to get with the program, but when he did, it was just. Beautiful. From where Hardison was sitting, he could see Eliot relaxing under Parker, letting her lead, just doing his best to hold on and hold her as close as he could.

Eliot looked about as awestruck, when they finally break apart, as Hardison had when Parker had first kissed him good morning.

“Oh, so she gets a kiss. What about me?” Keeping his voice light, airy. Teasing. Because honestly? Just seeing his two favorite people that happy, that starstruck? He was good. So good.

But an open invitation, if Eliot wanted.

Parker moved easily out of his lap, grinning and giggling. And Eliot was back to looking so carefully hopeful that Hardison couldn’t help but reach out, curl his fingers in his shirt and pull him up.

There was no fight in him when their lips meet. Just a soft slide, a stuttered breath, before Eliot was pushing closer, pulling him in, one hand coming up to carefully frame his jaw, touch gentle and warm, holding him like he was breakable. Special.

It wasn’t a long kiss, not by a longshot, but it still left Hardison breathless, left Eliot in the same state, and had Parker beaming at them from where she was perched by their side.

Eliot’s eyes were so bright, this close.

Hardison knew, in the still-functioning part of his brain, that this wasn’t even close to the last conversation they were going to have. About any of this.

They still had a job to do. Eliot had to make his own choices. When they all made it out of this (not if. They _would_ . They _always_ did), there was going to be a lot of hard decisions to be made on both sides.

But, for now, in this moment?

He just reeled Eliot in for another kiss, tasting his surprised laugh and just enjoying the feel of Eliot holding him close like he was something precious.

This moment was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always greatly loved and appreciated!
> 
> Also, important side note: there is a sequel planned for this. The original plot, when I started this bang, was much longer and simply didn't work with the deadlines (yay school!). So, it got split where I felt a complete story could be told, and then continued at a later point. I will be working on part two (and possible one-shots in the same universe, depending on how things fit), when I can!
> 
> (You should come say hi on [tumblr](https://distinctivelibrarians.tumblr.com/)!)


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